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"  Mali*  5  love  is  of  man''  s  life  a  thing  apart, 

^  Tis  woman'' s  whole  existence   .    .    .    ."  />.  Qj 


THE 
CASTAWAY 


THREE  GREAT  MEN  RUINED  IN 

ONE  YEAR-A  KING,  A  CAD  AND 

A  CASTAWAY 


By 

HALLIE  ERMlNIEvBIVES 

Author  of  Hearts  Courageous,  A  Furnace  of  Earth,  etc.,  ete. 


Illustrated  hp 
HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 


NEW  YOEK 
A.  WESSELS  COMPANY 

1906 


Copyright  1904 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 

May 


Limited  Popular  Edition 

Copyright  1905 

The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


July 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


si?i 


y  'O 


TO 
POST  WHEELER,  LITT.  D. 


720 


My  history  will  furnish  materials  for  a  pretty 
little  Romance  which  shall  be  entitled  and  de- 
nominated the  loves  of  Lord  B.    Byron,  I8O4 


I  hate  things  all  fiction ;  and  therefore  the 
Merchant  and  Othello  have  no  great  associa^ 
tions  to  me ;  but  Pierre  has.  There  should 
always  be  some  foimdation  of  fact  for  the 
most  airy  fabric,  and  pure  invention  is  but 
the  talent  of  a  liar.  Byron,  1817 


CONTENTS- 


18 
26 
84 
41 
49 
58 
66 
75 
86 


€HAPTEB  VAOa 

I  The  Feast  of  Ramazan  1 

II  **  Mad,  Bad  and  Dangerous  to  Ejiow  "  9 

III  The  Boomerang 

IV  The  Little  Boy  in  Aberdeen 
V  An  Anythingarian 

VI  What  the  Dead  May  Know 

VII  The  Youth  in  Fleet  Prison 

VIII  A  Savage  Spur 

IX  Gordon  Wakes  and  Finds  Himself  Famous 

X  The  Price  of  the  Bauble 

XI  The  Beaten  Path 

XII  "  Man's  Love  Is  of  Man's  Life  a  Thzng 
Apart" 

XIII  The  Smirched  Image 

XrV  What  Came  of  the  Treacle-Moon 

XV  The  Pitfall 

XVI  The  Despoiling 

XVII  The  Bursting  of  the  Storm 

XVIII  Gordon  Stands  at  Bay 

XIX  The  Burning  of  an  Effigy 

XX  The  Exile 

XXI  Gordon  Swms  for  a  Life 

XXII  The  Face  on  the  Ivory 

XXIII  The  Devil's  Deal 

XXrV  The  Mark  of  the  Beast 

XXV  Teresa  Meets  a  Stranger 

XXVI  A  Woman  of  Fire  and  Dreams 

XXVII  The  Evil  Eye 

XXVIII  The  Haunted  Man 

XXIX  Teresa's  Awakening 

XXX  The  Peace  of  Padre  Somalian 

XXXI  At  the  Feet  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows 

XXXII  The  Restraining  Hand 

XXXIII  The  Passing  of  Jane  Clermont 


96 
100 
112 
120 
128 
135 
142 
152 
156 
162 
167 
173 
180 
189 
197 
204 
208 
218 
223 
235 
246 


CHAPTKE 

PAGB 

XXXIV 

TiTA  Intervenes 

252 

XXXV 

In  the  Casa  Garden 

256 

XXXVI 

The  Face  at  the  Window 

263 

XXXVII 

Trevanion  Finds  an  Ally 

269 

XXXVIII 

The  Heart  of  a  Woman 

276 

XXXIX 

Barriers  Burned  Away 

283 

XL 

The  Oath  on  the  Kriss 

290 

XLI 

Ashes  oe  Denial 

298 

XLII 

Gordon  Tells  a  Story 

303 

XLIII 

One  Golden  Hour 

309 

XLIV 

By  Order  of  the  Pope 

316 

XLV 

The  Summons 

321 

XLVI 

The  Potion 

325 

XLVII 

The  Complicity  of  the  Gods 

329 

XLVIII 

The  All  of  Love 

337 

XLIX 

"  You  Are  Aiming  at  My  Heart!  *• 

3M 

L 

Cassidy  Finds  a  Lost  Scent 

348 

LI 

Dr.  Nott's  Sermon 

352 

LII 

Trevanion  in  the  Toils 

359 

LIII 

The  Coming  of  Dallas 

363 

LIV 

The  Pyre 

372 

LV 

The  Cat.t. 

378 

LVI 

The  Farewell 

386 

LVII 

The  Man  in  the  Red  Uniform 

395 

LVIII 

The  Archistrategos 

401 

LIX 

In  Which  Teresa  Makes  a  Journey 

410 

LX 

Tried  As  By  Fire 

416 

LXI 

The  Renunciation 

423 

LXII 

Gordon  Goes  Upon  a  Pilgrimage 

427 

LXIII 

The  Great  Silence 

434 

LXIV 

«♦  Of  Him  Whom  She  Dknibd  a  Homb, 

THE  Grave  " 

437 

Aftermath 

440 

THE  CASTAWAY 

CHAPTEE  I 

tTHE  FEAST  OF  EAMAZAlT 

^  cool  breeze  slipped  ahead  of  the  dawn.  K  blew  dim 
the  calm  Greek  stars,  stirred  the  intricate  branches  of 
olive-trees  inlaid  in  the  rose-pearl  fagade  of  sky,  bowed 
the  tall,  coral-lipped  oleanders  lining  the  rivulets,  and 
crisped  the  soft  wash  of  the  gulf-tide.  It  lifted  the 
strong  bronze  curls  on  the  brow  of  a  sleeping  man  who 
lay  on  the  sea-beach  covered  with  a  goatskin. 

George  Gordon  woke  and  looked  about  him:  at  the 
pallid,  ripple-ridged  dunes,  the  murmuring  clusters  of 
reeds;  at  the  dead  fire  on  which  a  kid  had  roasted  the 
night  before ;  at  the  forms  stretched  in  slumber  around 
it — Suliotes  in  woolen  kirtles  and  with  shawl  girdles 
stuck  with  silver-handled  pistols,  an  uncouth  and  sav- 
age body-guard;  at  his  only  English  companion,  John 
Hobhouse,  who  had  travelled  with  him  through  Albania 

(1); 


3  THE   CASTAWAY 

and  to-morrow  was  to  start  back  to  London,  asleep  now 
with  a  saddle  for  a  pillow.  While  he  gazed,  day  broke 
effulgent,  like  light  at  the  first  hour,  and  the  sun  rose, 
pouring  its  crimson  wine  into  the  goblet  of  the  sea's 
blue  crystal. 

For  a  full  year  Gordon  had  roughed  it  in  the  wilder- 
ness, sleeping  one  night  in  a  pasha's  palace,  the  next 
in  a  cow-shed — a.  strange  choice,  it  seemed,  for  a  peer 
of  twenty-two,  who  had  taken  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Lords  and  published  a  book  that  had  become  the 
talk  of  London.  Yet  now,  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and 
threw  back  his  square-set  shoulders,  his  colorless  face 
and  deep  gray-blue  eyes  whetted  with  keen  zest. 

"This  is  better  than  England,"  he  muttered.  "How 
the  deuce  could  anybody  make  such  a  world  as  that,  I 
wonder  ?  For  what  purpose  were  there  ordained  dandies 
and  kings — and  fellows  of  colleges — and  women  of  a 
certain  age — and  peers — and  m3rself ,  most  of  all  ?''  His 
thought  held  an  instant's  thin  edge  of  bitterness  as  his 
look  fell :  his  right  boot  had  a  thicker  sole  than  the  left, 
and  he  wore  an  inner  shoe  that  laced  tightly  under  the 
shrunken  foot. 

Stepping  gingerly  lest  he  waken  his  comrade  he 
threaded  the  prostrate  forms  to  the  shambling  rock- 
path  that  led,  through  white  rushes  and  clumps  of 
cochineal  cactus,  to  the  town.  A  little  way  along,  it 
crossed  a  ledge  jutting  from  the  heel  of  the  hill.  Under 
this  shelf  the  water  had  washed  a  deep  pool  of  limpid 
emerald.  He  threw  off  his  clothing  and  plunged  into 
the  tingling  surf.  He  swam  far  out  into  the  sea,  under 
the  sky's  lightening  amethyst,  every  veiii  beating  with 
delight. 


THE   CASTAWAY  3 

Before  he  came  from  the  water,  the  sunrise  had 
gilded  the  tops  of  the  mountains;  while  he  dressed  on 
the  rock  it  was  kindKng  golden  half-moons  on  the 
minarets  of  Missolonghi,  a  mile  away. 

As  his  eyes  wandered  over  the  scene— -the  strange 
stern  crags,  the  nearer  fields  broidered  with  currant- 
bushes,  the  girdling  coast  steeped  in  the  wild  poignant 
beauty  of  an  Ionian  October — ^they  turned  with  a 
darker  meaning  to  the  town,  quiet  enough  now,  though 
at  sunset  it  had  blazed  with  Mussulman  festivity,  while 
its  Greek  citizens  huddled  in  shops  and  houses  behind 
barred  doors.  It  was  the  feast  of  Eamazan — a  time  for 
the  Turks  of  daily  abstinence  and  nightly  carousal,  a 
long  fast  for  lovers,  whose  infractions  were  punished 
rigorously  with  tastinado  and  with  the  fatal  sack.  Till 
the  midnight  tolled  from  the  mosques  the  shouts  and 
muskets  of  the  faithful  had  blasted  the  solitude.  And 
this  land  was  the  genius-mother  of  the  world,  in  the 
grip  of  her  Turkish  conqueror,  who  defiled  her  cities 
with  his  Moslem  feasts  and  her  waters  with  the  bodies 
of  his  drowned  victims ! 

Would  it  always  be  so?  Gordon  thought  of  a  roll 
of  manuscript  in  his  saddle-bag — verses  written  on  the 
slopes  of  those  mountains  and  in  the  fiery  shade  of 
these  shores.  Into  the  pages  he  had  woven  all  that  old 
love  for  this  shackled  nation  which  had  been  one  of 
the  pure  enthusiasms  of  his  youth  and  had  grown  and 
deepened  with  his  present  sojourn.  Would  the  old  spirit 
of  Marathon  ever  rearise  ? 

He  went  back  to  the  sandy  beach,  sat  down,  and 
drawing  paper  from  his  pocket,  began  to  write,  using 


4  THE   CASTAWAY 

his  knee  for  a  desk.    The  spell  of  the  place  and  hour^ 
was  upon  him.    Lines  flowed  from  his  pencil : 

^'The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
iWhere  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

"Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung!. 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet. 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set 

iThe  mountains  look  on  Marathon^ 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free;; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave.'* 

His  gaze  fell  on  the  figures  about  the  dead  firOj, 
wrapped  in  rough  capotes — rugged  descendants  of  a 
once  free  race,  hardier  than  their  great  forefathers, 
but  with  ancient  courage  overlaid,  cringing  now  from 
the  wands  of  Turkish  pashas.  A  somber  look  came  to 
his  face  as  he  wrote : 

"  *Tis  something,  in  the  death  of  fame. 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race. 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame. 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blessed? 

Must  toe  but  blush?   Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!     Render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  the  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae!" 


THE  CASTAWAY  5 

He  looked  up.  The  crescents  on  the  spires  of  the 
town  were  dazzling  points  of  light  in^he  gold-blue  air, 
the  morning  full-blown,  clean  and  fragrant  with  scents 
of  sun  and  sea.  In  the  midst  of  its  warmth  and  beauty 
he  shivered.  An  odd  prescient  sensation  had  come  to 
him  like  a  gelid  breath  from  the  upper  ether.  He 
started  at  a  voice  behind  him : 

"More  poetry,  Fll  lay  a  guinea  V 

Gordon  did  not  smile.  The  chill  was  still  creeping 
in  his  veins.  He  thrust  the  paper  into  his  pocket  as 
Hobhouse  threw  himself  down  by  his  side. 

The  latter  noticed  his  expression.    "What  is  it?^^  he 


"Only  one  of  my  moods,  I  fancy.  But  just  before  you 
spoke  I  had  a  curious  feeling;  it  was  as  though  this 
spot — that  town  yonder — ^were  tangled  in  my  destiny .^^ 

The  barbaric  servants  had  roused  now  and  a  fire  was 
crackling. 

"There's  a  simple  remedy  for  that/'  the  other  said. 
"Come  back  to  London  with  me.  I  swear  I  hate  to 
start  to-morrow  without  you.'' 

Gordon  shook  his  head.  He  replied  more  lightly,  for 
the  eerie  depression  had  vanished  as  swiftly  as  it  had 
come: 

"Not  I!  You'll  find  it  the  same  hedge-and-ditch 
old  harridan  of  a  city — ^wine,  women,  wax-works  and 
weather-cocks — the  coaches  in  Hyde  Park,  and  man 
milliners  promenading  of  a  Sunday.  I  prefer  a  clear 
sky  with  windy  mare's-tails,  and  a  fine  savage  race  of 
two-legged  leopards  like  this," — ^he  pointed  to  the  fire 
with  its  picturesque  figures.  "I'll  have  another  year  of 
it,  Hobhouse,  before  I  go  back." 


6  THE   CASTA WAYi 

'TTou'll  have  spawned  your  whole  quarto  by  then,  no 
doubt  P 

"Perhaps.  I  am  like  the  tiger;  if  I  miss  the  first 
spring  I  go  growling  back  to  my  jungle.  I  must  take 
the  fit  as  it  offers.  Composition  comes  over  me  in  a 
kind  of  frenzy,  and  if  I  don't  write  to  empty  my  mind, 
I  go  mad.  Poetry  is  the  lava  of  the  imagination,  whose 
eruption  prevents  an  earthquake.  Much  the  little  en- 
vious knot  of  parson-poets  who  rule  the  reviews  know 
about  it  I"  he  continued  half  satirically. 

Hobhouse  smiled  quizzically.  The  man  beside  him 
had  had  a  short  and  sharp  acquaintance  with  England's 
self-constituted  authorities  in  poetic  criticism.  Two 
years  before,  fresh  from  college,  he  had  published  a 
slender  volume  of  verses.  In  quality  these  had  been  in- 
different enough,  but  the  fact  that  their  author  was  a 
peer  offered  an  attractive  text  for  the  gibes  of  the  re- 
viewers. Their  ridicule  pierced  him.  His  answer  had 
been  immediate  and  stunning — a  poetical  Satire,  keen 
as  a  rapier,  polished  as  a  mirror,  pitiless  as  the  Inqui- 
sition, which  flayed  his  detractors  one  by  one  for  the 
laughter  of  London.  The  book  had  been  the  talk  of 
the  year,  but  while  at  the  very  acme  of  popularity,  the 
youthful  author  had  withdrawn  it,  and,  still  smarting 
from  the  sneers  which  had  been  its  inspiration,  had 
sailed  for  the  Levant.  A  thought  of  this  sensitiveness 
was  in  Hobhouse's  mind  as  Gordon  continued: 

"When  I  get  home  I'll  decide  whether  to  put  it  into 
the  fire  or  to  publish.  If  it  doesn't  make  fuel  for  me 
it  will  for  the  critics.'^ 

"You  gave  them  cause  enough.    You'll  admit  that.'' 

"They  should  have  let  me  alone."     Gordon's  voice 


THE   CASTAWAY;  7 

under  its  lightness  hid  a  note  of  unaffected  feeling,  and 
his  eyes  gathered  spots  of  fire  and  brown.  "It  wasn't 
much — ^that  first  poor  little  college  book  of  mine !  But 
no!  I  was  a  noble  upstart — a  young  fool  of  a  peer 
that  needed  taking  down !  So  they  loosed  their  literary 
mountebanks  to  snap  at  me!  Is  it  any  wonder  I  hit 
back?    Who  wouldn't?" 

"At  least/'  averred  Hobhouse,  "very  few  would  have 
done  it  so  well.  There  was  no  quill-whittler  left  in  the 
British  Isles  when  you  finished  that  Satire  of  yours. 
None  of  the  precious  penny-a-liners  will  ever  forgive 
you." 

The  other  laughed.  "I  was  mad,  I  tell  you — mad!" 
he  said  with  humorous  ferocity.  "I  wrote  in  a  passion 
and  a  sirocco,  with  three  bottles  of  claret  in  my  head 
and  tears  in  my  eyes.  Besides,  I  was  two  years  younger 
then.  Before  I  sailed  I  suppressed  it.  I  bought  up 
the  plates  and  every  loose  volume  in  London.  Ah  well," 
he  added,  "one's  youthful  indiscretions  will  pass.  When 
I  come  back,  I'll  give  the  rascals  something  better." 

He  paused,  his  eyes  on  the  stony  bridle-path  that  led 
from  the  town.  "What  do  you  make  of  that?"  he 
queried. 

Hobhouse  looked.  Along  the  rugged  way  was  ap- 
proaching a  strange  procession.  In  advance  walked  an 
officer  in  a  purple  coat,  carrying  the  long  wand  of  his 
rank.  Following  came  a  file  of  Turkish  soldiers.  Then 
a  group  of  servants,  wearing  the  uniform  of  the  Way- 
wode — ^the  town's  chief  magistrate — and  leading  an  ass, 
across  whose  withers  was  strapped  a  bulky  brown  sack. 
After  flocked  a  rabble  of  all  degrees,  Turks  and  Greeks. 

"Queer!"  speculated  Hobhouse.     "It's  neither  a  fu- 


8  THE   castaway; 

neral  nor  a  wedding.  .What  other  of  their  Hanged  cere- 
monials can  it  be  ?" 

The  procession  halted  on  the  roct-shelf  over  the  deep 
pool.  The  soldiers  began  to  unstrap  the  ass's  brown 
burden.  A  quick  flash  of  horrified  incredulity  had 
darted  into  Gordon's  eyes.  The  ass  balked,  and  one 
of  the  men  pounded  it  with  his  sword-scabbard.  While 
it  flinched  and  scrambled,  a  miserable  muffled  wail  came 
from  somewhere — seemingly  from  the  air. 

Gordon  stiffened.  His  hand  flew  to  the  pistol  in  his 
belt.  He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  dashed  up  the  scraggy 
path  toward  the  rock,  shouting  in  a  voice  of  strained, 
infuriate  energy: 

^'jB^  God,  Edhliouse,  there's  a  woman  in  that  sackl" 


CHAPTER  11 


''mad,  bad  and  dangerous  to  know/* 


At  Lady  Jersey's  town  house,  in  Portman  Square,  the 
final  course  had  been  served  and  the  gentlemen's  glasses 
were  being  replenished.  Lady  Jersey  gave  the  signal. 
The  gentlemen  rose  and  bowed,  the  three  ladies  withdrew 
to  the  drawing-room ;  then  the  host,  the  earl,  said,  crack- 
ing a  walnut: 

'T;  heard  the  other  day  that  George  Grordon  is  on  his 
way  back  to  London.  You  were  with  him  in  the  East 
some  time,  weren't  you,  Hobhouse  ?" 

There  were  but  three  besides  the  host :  Sheridan,  the 
playwright,  looking  the  beau  and  wit  combined,  of  a 
clarety,  elderly,  red  complexion,  brisk  and  bulbous — 
William  Lamb,  heir  of  the  Melbourne  title,  a  personi- 
fied "career"  whose  voice  was  worn  on  the  edges  by  pub- 
lic speaking — and  Hobhouse,  whom  the  earl  addressed. 

The  young  man  bowed.  "I  left  him  in  Greece  just  a 
year  ago." 

"Is  it  true,"  asked  Lamb,  sipping  his  Meet  with  finical 
deliberation,  "that  he  drinks  nothing  but  barley-water 
and  dines  on  two  soda  biscuits  ?" 

"He  eats  very  little,"  assented  Hobhouse;  "dry  toastj> 

(9): 


10  THE   CASTAWAY 

water-cress,  a  glass  of  claret — that  was  usually  his  regi- 
men/' 

"What  an  infernal  pose!''  Lamb  exclaimed,  rousing. 
"A  ghoul  eating  rice  with  a  needle !  He  does  it  to  be 
eccentric.  Why,  at  Cambridge  they  say  he  used  to  keep 
a  tame  bear !  His  appetite  is  all  apiece  with  his  other 
fopperies  abroad  that  the  papers  reprint  here.  One  week 
he's  mopish.  Another,  he's  for  being  jocular  with  every- 
body. Then  again  he's  a  sort  of  limping  Don  Quixote, 
rowing  with  the  police  for  a  woman  of  the  town — like 
that  Greek  demirep  of  his  he  rescued  from  the  sack,  that 
Petersham  tells  about." 

"Nobody  believes  Petersham's  yarns !"  growled  Sheri- 
dan. 

"I  was  on  the  ground  when  that  incident  occurred. 
I'm  sorry  the  clubs  got  hold  of  it.  It's  a  confounded 
shame." 

Hobhouse  spoke  explosively.  Lord  Jersey's  shrewd 
deep-set  eyes  gathered  interest,  and  Sheridan  paused 
with  a  pinch  of  snuff  in  transit. 

"It  happened  one  sunrise,  when  we  were  camped  on 
the  sea-beach  just  outside  Missolonghi.  That  is  a  Greek 
town  held  by  the  Turks,  who  keep  its  Christian  citizens 
in  terror  of  their  lives.  The  girl  in  the  case  was  a  Greek 
by  birth,  but  her  father  was  a  renegade,  so  she  came  un- 
der Moslem  law." 

"I  presume  she  was  handsome,"  drawled  Lamb  caus- 
tically. "I  credit  Gordon  with  good  taste  in  femininity, 
at  least." 

Hobhouse  flushed,  but  kept  his  temper. 

*'If  s  nonsense,"  he  went  on, — "the  story  that  it  was 
any  affair  of  his  own.    There  was  a  young  Arab-looking 


THE   CASTAWAY  11 

ensign  who  had  fallen  in  with  us,  napied  Trevanion — 
he  had  deserted  from  an  English  sloop-of-the-line  at 
Bombay.  He  had  disappeared  the  night  before,  and  we 
had  concluded  then  it  was  for  some  petticoat  deviltry 
he'd  been  into.  I  didn't  like  the  fellow  from  the  start, 
but  Gordon  wouldn't  give  an  unlucky  footpad  the  cold 
shoulder."  ' 

Sheridan  chuckled.  "That's  Gordon !  I  remember  he 
had  an  old  hag  of  a  fire-lighter  at  his  rooms  here — Mrs. 
Muhl.  I  asked  him  once  why  he  ever  brought  her  from 
Newstead.  ^ell,'  says  he,  ^no  one  else  will  have  the 
poor  old  devil.' " 

"Come,  come,"  put  in  Lamb,  waspishly.  "Let's  hear 
the  new  version ;  we've  had  Petersham's." 

"We  had  seen  Trevanion  talking  to  the  girl,"  Hob- 
house  continued,  "in  her  father's  shop  in  the  bazaar. 
We  didn't  know,  of  course,  when  we  saw  the  procession, 
whom  the  Turkish  scoundrels  were  going  to  drown.  I 
didn't  even  guess  what  it  was  all  about  till  Gordon 
shouted  to  me.  His  pistol  was  out  before  you  could 
wink,  and  in  another  minute  he  had  the  fat  leader  by  the 
throat." 

"With  Mr.  Hobhouse  close  behind  him,"  suggested 
the  earl. 

"I  hadn't  a  firearm,  so  I  was  of  small  assistance.  We 
had  some  Suliote  ragamuffins  for  body-guard,  but  theyv 
are  so  cowed  they  will  run  from  a  Turkish  uniform. 
They  promptly  disappeared — till  it  was  all  over.  Well, 
there  was  a  terrible  hullabaloo  for  a  while.  I  made  sure 
they  would  butcher  us  out  and  out,  but  Gordon  kept  his 
pistol  clapped  on  the  purple  coat  and  faced  the  whole 
'ot  down." 


i2  THE   CASTAWAY 

^'WisH  he  had  shot  him/'  rumbled  Sheridan,  *'and 
appealed  to  the  resident !  In  the  year  of  Grace  1810  it's 
time  England  took  a  hand  and  blew  the  Turk  out  of 
Greece,  anyway !" 

''I  presume  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  offense  ?'' 
asked  the  earl. 

"It  seemed  not.  Trevanion  was  a  good-looking, 
swarthy  rogue,  and  had  been  too  bold.  Though  he  got 
away  himself,  he  left  the  girl  to  her  fate.  It  was  the 
feast  of  Ramazan,  and  he  must  have  known  what  that 
fate  would  be.  The  time  made  interference  harder  for 
Gordon,  since  both  law  and  religion  were  against  him. 
He  had  learned  some  of  their  palaver.  He  told  them  he 
was  a  pasha-of-three-tails  himself  in  his  own  country, 
and  at  last  made  the  head  butcher  cut  open  the  sack. 
The  girl  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  see,  with  great  almond 
eyes  sunk  with  fright — ^fifteen  years  old,  perhaps, 
though  she  looked  no  more  than  twelve — and  her  chalk- 
white  cheeks  and  the  nasty  way  they  had  her  hands  and 
feet  tied  made  my  blood  boil.  There  was  more  talk, 
and  Gordon  flourished  the  firman  Ali  Pasha  had  given 
him  when  we  were  in  Albania.  The  officer  couldn't 
read,  but  he  pretended  he  could  and  at  last  agreed  to 
go  back  and  submit  the  matter  to  the  Waywode.  So 
back  we  all  paraded  to  Missolonghi.  It  cost  Gordon  a 
plenty  there,  but  he  won  his  point." 

"That's  where  Petersham's  account  ends,  isn't  it?** 
The  earl's  tone  was  dry. 

"It's  not  all  of  it,"  Hobhouse  answered  with  some 
heat.  "Gordon  was  afraid  the  rascally  primate  might 
repent  of  his  promise  (the  Mussulman  religion  is  strenu- 
ous) so  he  took  the  girl  that  day  to  a  convent  and  as  soon 


THE   CASTAWAY  13 

as  possible  sent  her  to  Argos  to  her  brothej.  She  died^ 
poor  creature,  two  months  afterward,  of  f ever/^ 

Lamb  sniffed  audibly. 

"Very  pretty !  He  ought  to  turn  it  into  a  poem.  I 
dare  say  he  will.  If  you  hadn't  been  there  to  applaud, 
Hobhouse,  I  wager  the  original  program  wouldn't  have 
been  altered.  Pshaw!  He  always  was  a  sentimental 
harlequin,"  he  went  on  contemptuously,  "strutting  about 
in  a  neck-cloth  and  delicate  health,  and  starving  himself 
into  a  consumption  so  the  women  will  say,  'Poor  Gor- 
don— how  interesting  he  looks!'  Everything  he  does 
is  a  hectic  of  vanity,  and  all  he  has  written  is  glittering 
nonsense — snow  and  sophistry." 

Sheridan's  magnificent  iron-gray  head,  roughly 
hacked  as  if  from  granite,  turned  sharply.  "He's  no 
sheer  seraph  nor  saint,"  he  retorted;  "none  of  us  is, 
but  curse  catch  me!  there's  no  sense  in  remonstering 
him !  He'll  do  great  things  one  of  these  days.  He  was 
bom  with  a  rosebud  in  his  mouth  and  a  nightingale 
singing  in  his  ear !" 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  at  that  mo- 
ment the  protestant  face  of  the  hostess  appeared. 

"How  interesting  men  are  to  each  other !"  Lady  Jer* 
sey  exclaimed.  "We  women  have  actually  been  driven  ta 
the  evening  papers." 

The  four  men  followed  into  the  drawing-room,  fur- 
nished in  ruby  and  dull  gold — a  room  perfect  in  its 
appointments,  for  its  mistress  added  to  her  innate  kind- 
ness of  heart  and  tact  a  rare  taste  and  selection.  It 
showed  in  the  Sevres-topped  tables,  the  tawny  fire- 
screens, the  candelabra  of  jasper  and  filigree  gold,  and 
in  the  splendid  Gainsborough  opposite  the  door. 


U  THE   CASTAWAY. 

The  whole  effect  was  a  perfect  setting  for  Lady  Jer- 
sey. In  it  Lady  Caroline  Lamb  appeared  too  exotic,  too 
highly  colored,  too  flamboyant — ^like  a  purple  orchid  in 
a  dish  of  tea-roses ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  too  warmly 
drawn  for  the  absent  stateliness  of  Annabel  Milbanke, 
Lady  Melbourne's  niece  and  guest  for  the  season.  The 
latter's  very  posture,  coldly  fair  like  a  sword  on  salute, 
seemed  to  chide  the  sparkle  and  glitter  and  color  that 
radiated,  a  latent  impetuosity,  from  Lady  Caroline. 

''I  see  by  the  Courier/'  observed  Lady  Jersey,  "that 
George  Gordon  is  in  London.'' 

"Speak  of  the  devil — ''  sneered  Lamb ;  and  Sheridan 
said: 

"That's  curious;  we  were  just  discussing  him." 

Miss  Milbanke's  even  voice  entered  the  conversation. 
"One  hears  everywhere  of  his  famous  Satire.  You 
think  well  of  it,  don't  you,  Mr.  Sheridan?" 

"My  dear  madam,  for  the  honor  of  having  written  it, 
I  would  have  welcomed  all  the  enemies  it  has  made  its 
author." 

"What  dreadful  things  the  papers  are  always  saying 
about  him!"  cried  Lady  Jersey,  with  a  little  shudder. 
"I  hope  his  mother  hasn't  seen  them.  I  hear  she  lives 
almost  a  recluse  at  Newstead  Abbey." 

*^ith  due  respect  to  the  conventions,"  Lamb  inter- 
posed ironically,  "there's  small  love  lost  between  them. 
His  guardian  used  to  say  they  quarrelled  like  cat  and 
dog." 

"He  never  liked  the  boy,"  disputed  the  hostess, 
warmly,  '^hy,  he  wouldn't  stand  with  him  when  he 
took  his  seat  in  the  Lords.  I  am  right,  am  I  not,  Mr. 
Hobhouse?" 


THE   CASTAWAY  15 

'TTes,  your  ladyship.  Lord  Carlisle  refused  to  intro- 
duce him.  The  Chancellor,  even,  haggled  absurdly  over 
his  certificate  of  birth.  Gordon  came  to  Parliament 
with  only  one  friend — an  old  tutor  of  his — entered 
alone,  took  the  peer's  oath  and  left.  He  has  never 
crossed  the  threshold  since." 

*^What  a  shame,"  cried  Lady  Caroline,  "that  neither 
Annabel  nor  I  have  ever  seen  your  paragon.  Lady 
Jersey  I  Mr.  Hobhouse,  you  or  Mr.  Sheridan  must 
bring  him  to  dinner  to  Melbourne  House." 

"If  he'll  come!"  said  Lamb,  sotto  voce,  to  the  earl. 
''They  say  he  hates  to  see  women  eat,  because  it  destroys 
his  illusions." 

Lady  Jersey  shrugged.  "It  is  vastly  in  his  favor 
that  he  still  has  any,"  she  retorted,  rising.  "Come,  Caro, 
give  us  some  music.    We  are  growing  too  serious." 

Lady  Caroline  went  to  the  piano,  and  let  her  hands 
wander  over  the  keys.  Wild,  impatient  of  restraint, 
she  was  a  perpetual  kaleidoscope  of  changes.  Now  an 
unaccountably  serious  mood  had  captured  her.  The 
melody  that  fell  from  her  fingers  was  a  minor  strain, 
and  she  began  singing  in  a  voice  low,  soft  and  caressing 
— ^with  a  feeling  that  Annabel  Milbanke  had  never 
guessed  lay  within  that  agreeable,  absurd,  perplexing, 
mad-cap  little  being: 

"Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part. 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now  and  take  the  rest! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo! 


m  THE   CASTAWAY 

By  thy  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  Mgesm  wind! 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe. 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tingeH 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo! 

By  those  lips  I  may  not  taste!; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist! 
By  all  token-flow'rs  that  tell 
(Word  can  never  speak  so  well!) 
By  love's  changing  joy  and  woe, 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo  r 

She  sang  the  lines  with  a  strange  tenderness — U 
haunting  accent  of  refrain,  that  had  insensibly  moved 
every  one  in  the  room,  and  surprised  for  the  moment 
€ven  her  own  matter-of-fact  husband.  A  womanly  soft- 
ness had  misted  Lady  Jersey's  gaze,  and  Annabel  Mil- 
ibanke  looked  quickly  and  curiously  up  at  the  singer  as 
ehe  paused,  a  spot  of  color  in  her  cheeks  and  her  hazel 
eyes  large  and  bright. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence — a  blank  which  Hob- 
house  broke: 

"He  wrote  that  when  we  were  travelling  together  in 
Albania.  I'm  glad  I  sent  it  to  you.  Lady  Caroline.  I 
didn't  know  how  beautiful  it  was." 

Miss  Milbanke  turned  her  head. 

"So  that  is  George  Gordon's,"  fihe  said.  She  had 
felt  a  slight  tiirill,  an  emotion  new  to  her,  while  the 
other  sang.    "Mr.  Hobhouse,  what  does  he  look  like?'^ 

The  young  man,  who  was  by  nature  and  liking  some- 
thing of  an  artist,  took  a  folded  paper  from  his  wallei 
and  spread  it  out  beneath  a  lamp. 


THE   CASTAWAY  17 

^'I  made  this  sketch  the  last  night  I  saw  him  in 
Greece/^  he  said,  "at  Missolonghi,  just  a  year  ago/' 

Lady  Caroline  Lamb  and  Miss  Milbanke  both  bent 
to  look  at  the  portrait.  When  they  withdrew  their  eyes, 
the  calmer,  colder  features  showed  nothing,  but  Lady 
Caroline's  wore  a  deep,  vivid  flush. 

"Mad,  bad  and  dangerous  to  knowT'  her  brain  was 
saying,  "yet — ^what  a  face  T' 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BOOMERANG 

"George  Gordon!'' 

There  was  an  unaffected  pleasure  in  the  exclamation, 
and  its  echo  in  the  answer :  "Sherry !  And  young  as 
ever,  I'll  bo  bound !" 

"I  heard  last  night  at  Lady  Jersey's  you  were  in 
London/'  said  Sheridan,  after  the  first  greetings.  "So 
you've  had  enough  of  Greece,  eh  ?  Three  years !  What 
have  you  done  in  all  that  time  ?" 

"I  have  dined  the  mufti  of  Thebes,  I  have  viewed  the 
harem  of  Ali  Pasha,  I  have  kicked  an  Athenian  post- 
master. I  was  blown  ashore  on  the  island  of  Salamis. 
I  caught  a  fever  going  to  Olympia.  And  I  have  found 
that  I  like  to  be  back  in  England — ^the  oddest  thing  of 
all!" 

Gordon  ended  half-earnestly.  Threading  the  famil- 
iar thoroughfares,  tasting  the  city's  rush,  its  intermina- 
bleness,  its  counterplay  and  torsion  of  living,  he  had 
felt  a  sense  of  new  appreciation.  His  months  of  freer 
breathing  in  the  open  spaces  of  the  East  had  quickened 
his  pulses. 

(18) 


THE   CASTAWAY  19 

The  pair  strolled  on  together  chatting,  the  old  wit 
linking  his  arm  in  the  younger  man's.  He  had  always 
liked  Gordon  and  the  appearance  of  his  famous  tour  de 
force  had  lifted  this  liking  into  genuine  admiration. 

"Hobhouse  says  you've  brought  back  another  book/** 
said  he,  presently. 

"I've  a  portmanteau  crammed  with  stanzas  in  Spen- 
ser's measure,  but  they're  likely  to  be  drivelling  idiot- 
ism.  I  must  leave  that  to  the  critics.  I  have  heard 
their  chorus  of  deep  damnations  once/'  Gordon  added 
ruefully.  "But  no  doubt  they've  long  ago  forgotten 
my  infantile  ferocities." 

Sheridan  shot  a  keen  glance  under  his  bushy  brows. 
Could  the  other,  he  wondered,  have  so  undervalued  the 
vicious  hatred  his  cutting  Satire  had  raised  in  the  ranks 
of  the  prigs  and  pamphleteers  it  pilloried?  In  his 
long  foreign  absence  had  he  been  ignorant  of  the  flood 
of  tales  so  assiduously  circulated  in  the  London  news- 
papers and  magazines? 

His  thought  snapped.  Gordon  had  halted  before  a 
book-shop  which  bore  the  sign  of  "The  Juvenile  Li- 
brary," his  eye  caught  by  printed  words  on  a  paste- 
board placard  hung  in  its  window. 

"Sherry !"  he  cried,  his  color  changing  prismaticall^. 
"Look  there!" 

The  sign  read: 

''Queen  Mob." 

For  writing  the  which  Mr.  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Stands  lately  expelled  from  University  College,  Oxford, 

2s,  6d. 


20.  THE    CASTAWAY, 

'Also 

''English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers" 

A  Poetical  Satire 

By  a  Nohle  Lord  Travelling  Abroad.^ 

A  few  copies  of  this  worh 

(Suppressed  hy  the  Author  at  great  expense) ^ 

which  can  he  bought  nowhere  else  in  London-^^ guinea.. 

"Devil  take  the  blackguard !"  blurted  Sheridanli  .^He" 
followed  the  other  into  the  musty  shop  where  a  stooped,' 
agate-eyed  old  man  laid  aside  a  black-letter  volume  of 
Livy's  Eoman  History  and  shuffled  forward  to  greet 
them. 

Gordon's  face  was  pallid  and  his  eyes  were  sparkling. 
He  had  written  the  book  the  pasteboard  advertised  in  a 
fit  of  rage  that  had  soon  cooled  to  shame  of  its  retaliative 
scorn.  He  had  believed  every  copy  procurable  destroyed 
before  he  left  England.  He  had  thought  of  this  fact 
often  with  self-congratulation,  dreaming  this  monu- 
ment of  his  youthful  petulance  rooted  out.  To-day  it 
was  almost  the  first  thing  he  confronted.  The  sedu- 
lous greed  that  hawked  his  literary  indiscretion  to  the 
world  roused  now  an  old  murderous  fury  that  had  some- 
times half-scared  him  in  his  childhood.  He  was  bat- 
tling with  this  as  he  pointed  out  the  second  item  of 
the  sign. 

*'How  many  of  these  have  you?"  he  asked  the  pro- 
prietor shortly. 

"Twelve/' 

"I  will  take  them  all."  Gordon  put  a  bank-note  on 
the  counter. 


THE   CASTAWAY  21 

The  bookseller  regarded  Lim  sagely,  as  he  set  the 
books  before  him.    It  was  a  good  day's  bargain. 

A  doorway  led  from  the  shop  into  a  binding-room, 
where  stood  a  stove  with  glne-pots  heating  upon  it. 
AVith  a  word  to  Sheridan,  Gordon  seized  his  purchase 
and  led  the  way  into  this  room.  The  dealer  stared  and 
followed. 

He  saw  the  purchaser  tear  the  books  cover  from 
cover,  and  thrust  them  one  by  one  into  the  fiery  maw 
of  the  stove.  And  now,  at  the  stranger's  halting  step 
and  the  beauty  of  his  face,  sudden  intelligence  came  to 
him.  Five — ten — ^twenty  guineas  apiece  he  could  have 
got,  if  he  had  only  found  the  wit  to  guess !  The  know- 
ledge turned  his  parchment  visage  saffron  with  sup- 
pressed cupidity,  anger  and  regret. 

The  bell  in  the  outer  room  announced  a  customer, 
and  the  bookseller  went  into  the  shop,  leaving  the  door 
ajar.  Through  it  came  a  voice — a  lady's  inquiry.  She 
was  asking  for  a  copy  of  the  Satire  whose  pages  were 
shrivelling  under  Sheridan's  regretful  eye. 

Gordon's  hand  held  the  last  volume.  He  had  turned 
to  look  through  the  door — a,  fine,  tall,  spirit-looking  girl, 
he  thought.  His  observant  eye  noted  her  face — a  cool, 
chaste  classic,  and  her  dress,  rich,  but  with  a  kind  of 
quiet  and  severity. 

Yielding  to  some  whimsical  impulse,  he  went  rapidly 
out  to  the  pavement.  She  was  seating  herself  in  her 
carriage  beside  her  companion  as  he  approached. 

''I  had  just  secured  the  last  copy,"  he  stated  gravely, 
almost  apologetically.  "I  have  another,  however,  and 
shall  be  glad  if  you  will  take  this." 


22  THE   CASTA WAYi 

A  glimmer  of  surprise  had  shadowed  the  immobile 
face,  but  it  passed. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  said.  "It  seems  difficult 
to  procure.  We  saw  the  sign  quite  by  accident !"  She 
was  demurring — on  prudential  grounds.  She  hesitated 
only  a  moment — ^just  long  enough  for  him  to  become 
aware  of  another  personality  beside  her,  an  impression 
of  something  wild,  Ariel-like,  eccentric  yet  pleasing — 
then  she  searched  her  purse  and  held  out  to  him  a 
golden  guinea. 

"That  is  the  price,  I  think,"  she  added,  and  with  the 
word  "Melbourne  House"  to  the  coachman,  the  carriage 
merged  in  the  stream  of  the  highway. 

Annabel  Milbanke's  complaisant  brow  was  undis- 
turbed. She  was  very  self-possessed,  very  unromantic, 
very  correct.  As  the  chestnut  bays  whirled  on  toward 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  she  did  no  more  than  allow  her 
colorless  imagination  to  ask  itself:  "Who  is  he,  I 
wonder  ?" 

Her  fragile,  overdressed  companion  might  have  an- 
swered that  mental  question.  As  Gordon  had  come 
from  the  doorway,  his  step  halting,  yet  so  slightly  as 
to  be  unnoticed  by  one  who  saw  the  delicate  synunetry 
of  his  face,  a  quick  tinge  had  come  to  Lady  Caroline 
Lamb's  cheeks.  The  brown  curls  piled  on  the  pale  oval 
of  brow,  the  deep  gray  eyes,  the  full  chiselled  lips  and 
strongly  modelled  chin — all  brought  back  to  her  a  pen- 
cil sketch  she  had  once  seen  under  a  table-lamp.  The 
tinge  grew  swiftly  to  a  flush,  and  she  turned  to  look 
back  as  they  sped  on,  but  she  said  nothing. 

Gordon  had  seen  neither  the  flush  nor  the  backward 
look.    His  eyes,  as  he  surveyed  the  golden  guinea  in  his 


THE   CASTAWAY  23 

hand,  held  only  the  picture  of  the  calnr  girl  who  had 
given  it  to  him. 

"Melbourne  House/^  he  repeated  aloud.  "What  a 
stately  beauty  she  has — the  perfection  of  a  glacier !  I 
wonder  now  why  I  did  that/'  he  thought  quizzically. 
"I  never  saw  her  before.  A  woman  who  wants  to  read 
my  Satire ;  and  I  always  hated  an  esprit  in  petticoats ! 
It  was  impulse — ^pure  impulse,  reasonless  and  irrespon- 
sible.   God  knows  what  contradictions  one  contains !" 

He  tossed  the  coin  in  the  air  abstractedly,  caught  it 
and  slipped  it  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  as  Sheridan  re- 
joined him.  The  latter  had  not  seen  the  carriage  and 
its  occupants. 

"A  fine  ash-heap  we've  made,"  said  the  wit,  "and  a 
pity  too !  Curse  catch  me,  I  wish  Fd  written  it !  If  it 
were  mine,  instead  of  suppressing,  Fd  print  a  new  edi- 
tion and  be  damned  to  them.  If  they  won't  forget  this, 
cram  another  down  their  throats  and  let  them  choke 
on  it !  Come  and  drink  a  bottle  of  vin  de  Graves  with 
me  at  the  Cocoa-Tree,"  he  continued  persuasively. 
"Tom  Moore  is  in  town.  We'll  get  him  and  go  to  the 
Italian  Opera  afterward.    What  do  you  say  ?" 

Gordon  shook  his  head.  "Not  to-day.  I  have  an  ap- 
pointment at  my  rooms.  Hobhouse  pretends  he  wants 
to  read  my  new  manuscript." 

"To-morrow,  then.  I  want  to  gei  the  rights  of  the^ 
latest  apocryphal  stories  of  you  the  clubs  are  relish- 
ing." 

"Stories?    What  stories?" 

Sheridan  cleared  his  throat  uneasily.  "Surely,  let- 
ters— newspapers — ^must  have  reached  you  in  Greece?" 

"Newspapers!"  exclaimed  Gordon.    "I  haven't  read 


'24  THE    CASTAWAY 

one  in  a  year.  As  for  letters — ^well^  it  has  been  little 
better.  So  the  newspapers  have  been  talking  of  me, 
eh?'^ 

^'Not  that  any  one  in  particular  believes  them,"  in- 
terposed his  companion  hastily,  "or  anything  the 
Scourge  prints,  for  that  matter!" 

"The  Scourge  ?  That  was  the  worst  of  the  lot  before 
I  left.  It^s  still  mud-flinging,  is  it?  I  suppose  I  might 
have  expected  it.  There's  scarcely  a  witling-scribbler 
in  London  I  didn't  grill  with  that  cursed  Satire  of 
mine,  that  they  won't  let  stay  in  its  grave.  But  the 
newspaper  wiseacres — ^what  under  the  canopy  can  they 
know  of  my  wanderings  ?  I  haven't  set  eyes  on  a  jour- 
nalist since  I  left." 

"Of  course,  the/re  perfectly  irresponsible !" 

"What  are  they  saying.  Sherry?" 

Sheridan  hesitated. 

"Come,  come;  out  with  it!" 

"The  Morning  Post  reported  last  week  that  the  pasha 
of  the  Morea  had  made  you  a  present  of  a  Circassian 
girl-" 

"It  was  a  Circafisian  mare!" 

"And  that  you  had  quarters  in  a  Franciscan  nun- 
nery." 

"A  monastery!"  Gordon  laughed — an  unmirthful 
laugh,  ^^ith  one  Capuchin  friar,  a  bandy-legged 
Turkish  cook,  a  couple  of  Albanian  savages  and  a  drag- 
oman !    What  tales  are  they  telling  at  the  clubs  ?" 

"That's  about  all  that's  new — except  Petersham.  He 
has  some  tale  of  a  Turkish  peri  of  yours  that  you  saved 
from  a  sack  in  the  ^gean." 

Gordon's  lips  set  tight  together.     The  pleasure  he 


THE    CASTAWAY  25 

had  feH  al  his  return  had  been  shot  through  with  a 
new  pain  that  spoke  plainly  in  his  question: 

"Sherry!  Is  there  no  story  they  tell  of  these  two 
years  that  I  need  not  blush  at  ?" 

The  other  caught  at  the  straw.  "They  say  you  swam 
the  Hellespont,  and  outdid  Leander/' 

"I^m  obliged  to  them!  I  wonder  they  didn't  invent 
a  Hero  to  wait  for  my  Leandering !''  The  voice  held 
a  bitter  humor,  the  antithesis  of  the  open  pleasantry  of 
their  meeting.  "I  presume  that  version  will  not  be  long 
in  arriving/'  Gordon  added,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Sheridan  grasped  it  warmly.  "I  shall  see  you  to- 
morrow," he  said,  and  they  parted. 

From  the  edge  of  his  show-window,  William  Godwin, 
the  bookseller,  with  a  malignant  look  in  his  agate  eyes, 
watched  Gordon  go. 

In  the  inner  room  he  raked  the  fragments  of  charred 
leather  from  the  stove,  thinking  of  the  guineas  he  had 
let  slip  through  his  fingers.  Then  he  sat  down  at  his 
desk  and  drawing  some  dusty  sheets  of  folio  to  him 
began  to  write,  with  many  emendations.  His  quill  pen 
scratched  maliciously  for  a  long  time.  At  last  he  leaned 
back  and  regarded  what  he  had  written  with  huge  sat- 
isfaction. 

"The  atheistical  brat  of  a  lord!'^  he  muttered  vin- 
dictively. "I'll  make  his  ribs  gridirons  for  his  heart! 
I'll  send  this  as  a  leader  for  the  next  issue  of  the 
Scourge r 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LITTLE  BOT  IN  ABERDEEN 

'^It  is  magnificent  V  Hobhouse  looked  up  as  he  spoke. 

It  was  in  Gordon's  apartment  in  Reddish's  Hotel. 
The  table  was  strewn  with  loose  manuscript — ^the  verses 
he  had  laughingly  told  Sheridan  were  "likely  to  be 
drivelling  idiotism.''  Over  these  Hobhouse  had  bent 
for  an  hour,  absorbed  and  delighted,  breathing  their 
strange  spirit  of  exhilaration,  of  freedom  from  rhyth- 
mic shackles,  of  adventure  into  untried  poetic  depths. 
They  stood  out  in  sharp  relief — original,  imique,  of 
classic  model  yet  of  a  genre  all  their  own.  It  would 
be  a  facer  for  Jeffrey,  the  caustic  editor  of  the  Edin- 
hurgh  Review,  and  for  all  the  crab-apple  following  Gor- 
don's boyish  rancor  had  roused  to  abuse.    Now  he  said : 

"Nothing  like  it  was  ever  written  before.  Have  you 
shown  it  to  a  publisher  yet?" 

Gordon  glanced  at  the  third  person  in  the  room — a 
gray-haired  elderly  man  with  kindly  eyes — as  he  re- 
plied : 

"Dallas,  here,  took  it  to  Miller.    He  declined  it.'* 

"The  devil!"  shot  out  Hobhouse,  incredulously. 

*'John  Murray  will  publish  it,"  Gordon  continued. 
(36) 


THE   CASTAWAY  27 

*'I  had  his  letter  with  the  copyhold  an  hour  ago/'  He 
took  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  up  to  view. 

^^I  congratulate  you  both/'  Hobhouse  said  heartily, 

Gordon  shrugged  acridly,  and  rising,  began  to  pace 
the  room.  The  sore  spot  had  been  rankling  since  that 
walk  with  Sheridan. 

"Wait  till  the  critics  see  it.  They  will  have  other 
opinions,  no  doubt.  Well,  never  mind,"  he  added.  "I 
was  peppered  so  highly  once  that  it  must  be  aloes  or 
cayenne  to  make  me  taste.  They  forced  me  to  bitter- 
ness at  first ;  I  may  as  well  go  through  to  the  last.  Vce 
victis!    ril  fall  fighting  the  host.    That's  something." 

The  gray-haired  man  had  picked  up  his  hat.  It  was 
not  a  hat  of  the  primest  curve,  nor  were  his  clothes  of 
a  fashionable  cut.  They  were  well-worn,  but  his  neck- 
cloth was  spotless,  and  though  his  face  showed  lines  of 
toil  and  anxiety,  it  bore  the  inextinguishable  marks  of 
gentility.  Gordon  had  not  told  him  that  he  had  spent 
a  part  of  the  day  inquiring  into  the  last  detail  of  in- 
valid wife  and  literary  failure;  now  his  glance  veiled  a 
singular  look  whose  source  lay  very  deep  in  the  man. 

*^Don't  hasten,"  he  said.  "I  have  a  reputation  for 
gloom,  but  my  friends  must  not  be  among  the  reput- 
ants!    Least  of  all  you,  Dallas." 

The  other  sat  down  again  and  threw  his  hat  on  the 
table,  smiling.  "Gloom?"  he  asked.  "And  have  you 
still  that  name  ?  You  were  so  as  a  little  laddie  in  Aber- 
deen, but  I  thought  you  would  have  left  off  the  Scotch 
blues  long  ago  with  your  tartan." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  cried  Gordon,  "as  I  left  off  the 
burr  from  my  tongue.  How  I  hated  the  place — all  ex- 
cept Dee-side  and  old  Lachin-y-gair !    That  pleased  me 


2S  THE    CASTAWAY 

for  its  wildness.  If  God  had  a  hand  in  its  valleys,  the 
devil  must  have  had  a  hoof  in  some  of  its  ravines,  for 
the  clouds  foamed  up  from  their  crevices  like  the  spray 
of  the  ocean  of  hell.  Dallas,"  he  said,  veering,  "what 
a  violent,  unlovely  little  wretch  it  was  we  used  to  know 
so  many  years  ago, — ^you  never  saw  him,  Hobhouse! — 
that  little  boy  in  Aberdeen  V 

Hobhouse  looked  up.  There  was  a  curious  note  in 
the  voice,  a  sort  of  brooding  inquiry,  of  regret,  of  wist- 
fulness  all  in  one.  It  was  a  tone  he  had  never  heard 
so  plainly  but  once  before — a  night  when  they  two  had 
sat  together  before  a  camp-fire  on  the  Greek  sea-coast, 
when  Gordon  had  talked  of  old  Cambridge  days,  and  of 
Matthews,  his  classmate,  destined  to  be  drowned.  It 
was  this  tone  Hobhouse  heard. 

The  older  man's  eyes  had  a  retrospective  haze,  which 
he  winked  away,  as  he  smoothed  down  the  frayed  edges 
of  his  waistcoat  with  a  hesitating  hand,  as  though  half- 
embarrassed  under  the  other's  gaze. 

"A  little  misshapen  unit  of  a  million,"  continued 
Gordon,  "a  miserable  nothing  of  something,  who 
dreamed  barbarous  fantasies  and  found  no  one  who  un- 
derstood him — ^no  one  but  one.  Do  you  remember  him, 
Dallas?" 

The  other  nodded,  his  head  turned  away.  "He  was 
not  so  hard  to  understand." 

"Not  for  you,  Dallas,  and  it's  for  that  reason  most 
of  all  I  am  going  to  paint  his  picture.  Will  it  bore  you, 
Hobhouse?"  he  asked  whimsically.  'To  discuss  child- 
hood is  such  a  snivelling,  popping  small-shot,  water- 
hen  waste  of  powder  to  most  people." 

Hobhouse  shook  his  head,  and  the  speaker  went  on: 


ITHE  CASTAWAT  S^ 

"First  of  all,  I  wish  you  would  witness  a  signature 
for  me," — ^and  handed  him  the  paper  he  had  taken  from 
his  pocket. 

As  the  young  man  glanced  at  it^  he  looked  up  with 
quick  surprise,  but  checked  himself  and,  signing  it;^ 
leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

Gordon  returned  to  his  slow  pace  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  as  he  went  he  talked: 

"The  fiercest  animals  have  the  smallest  litters,  and 
he  was  an  only  child,  though  he  had  been  told  he  had  a 
half-sister  somewhere  in  the  world.  He  was  unmanage- 
able in  temper,  sullenly  passionate,  a  queer  little  bundle 
of  silent  rages  and  wants  and  hates — ^the  sort  people 
call  ^inhuman/  There  was  never  but  one  nurse,  if  I 
remember,  who  could  manage  him  at  all.  He  had  a 
twisted  foot — the  gift  of  his  mother,  and  added  to  hj 
a  Nottingham  quack.  He  lived  in  lodgings, — cursed 
fusty  they  were,  too,  the  fustiest  in  Aberdeen, — ^with 
his  mother.  He  had  never  set  eyes  on  his  father;  how 
he  knew  he  had  one,  I  can^t  imagine.  When  he  was  old 
enough,  he  was  sent  to  'squeeF,  as  they  called  it  in 
Aberdeen  dialect — day-school,  where  he  learned  to  say: 

^God — made — man. 
Let — us — love — Him,' 

and  to  make  as  poor  a  scrawl  as  ever  scratched  over  a 
frank.  He  was  a  blockhead,  a  hopeless  blockhead !  The 
master, — ^how  devout  and  razor-faced  and  dapper  he 
was!  he  was  minister  to  the  kirk  also, — used  to  topsy- 
turvy the  class  now  and  then,  and  bring  the  lowest 
highest.    These  were  the  only  times  the  boy  was  at  the 


30  THE   CASTAWAY 

head.  Then  the  master  would  say,  ^Now,  George,  man, 
let's  see  how  soon  you  can  limp  to  the  foot  again  V  This 
was  a  jest,  but  when  the  others  shouted,  the  boy  used 
to  turn  cold  with  shame.  Small  wonder  he  didn't  learn, 
for  he  didn't  want  to.  A  pity,  too,  Dallas,  for  in  those 
days  three  words  and  a  half -smile  would  have  changed 
him.    I  venture  it  would  take  more  than  that  to-day  1" 

He  paused,  his  brows  frowning,  his  lips  drawn  softly. 
When  he  went  on,  it  was  in  a  more  constrained  tone: 

"One  year,  suddenly,  everything  changed.  His  guard- 
ian took  him  from  the  school  and  he  had  a  tutor — a 
very  serious,  saturnine  young  man,  with  spectacles," — 
Dallas  had  taken  off  his  own  and  was  polishing  them 
earnestly  with  his  handkerchief, — "who  didn't  make 
the  boy  hate  him — a  curious  thing!  He  was  a  great 
man  already  in  the  boy's  eyes,  because  he  had  been  in 
America  when  the  Colonies  were  fighting  King  George. 
The  boy  would  have  liked  to  be  a  colonist  too — he  had 
never  been  introduced  to  the  gaudy  charlatanry  of  kings 
and  the  powwowishness  of  rank.  He  hadn't  become  a 
lord  then,  himself. 

"This  marvel  of  a  tutor  wasn't  pestilently  prolix. 
He  taught  him  no  skimble-skamble  out  of  the  cate- 
chism, though  he  was  a  good  churchman;  but  the  first 
time  the  boy  looked  in  those  big  horn  spectacles,  he 
knew  there  was  one  man  in  the  world  who  could  under- 
stand him.  The  tutor  made  him  want  to  learn,  too, 
and  strangest  of  all,  he  never  seemed  to  notice  that  his 
pupil  was  lame.  How  did  he  perform  that  miracle, 
Dallas  ?'' 

The  older  man  set  his  glasses  carefully  on  the  ridge 
of  his  nose,  as  he  shook  his  head  with  a  little  graceful. 


THE   CASTAWAY.  3i 

Seprecating  gesture  that  was  very  winning.  Hobhouse's 
eyes  were  tracing  the  design  of  the  carpet. 

"I  remember  once/'  Gordon  continued,  ^^a  strange 
thing  happened.  The  boy's  father  came  to  Aberdeen. 
One  day — the  boy  was  walking  up  the  High  Street  with 
his  tutor — some  one  pointed  him  out.  To  think  that 
splendid-looking  man  in  uniform  was  his  father!  He 
felt  very  pitiful-hearted,  but  he  plucked  up  courage  and 
went  up  to  him  and  told  him  his  name." 

Dallas,  who  had  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair,  cleared 
his  throat  with  some  energy,  rose  and  stood  looking  out 
of  the  window. 

"The  splendid  gentleman  forgot  to  take  the  boy  in 
his  arms.  He  looked  him  over  and  lisped:  *A  pretty 
boy — ^but  what  a  pity  he  has  such  a  leg !'  A  queer  thing 
to  say,  wasn't  it,  Hobhouse! 

"One  of  those  fits  of  rage  that  made  all  right-minded 
people  hate  him  came  over  the  boy  when  he  heard  that. 
^Dinna  speak  of  it !  Dinna  speak  of  it !'  he  screamed, 
and  struck  at  the  man  with  his  fist.  Then  he  ran  away 
— off  to  the  fields,  I  think — as  fast  as  he  could,  and 
that  was  the  first  and  the  last  time  he  ever  saw  his 
father. 

"He  had  forgotten  all  about  his  tutor,  but  the  tutor 
ran  after  him,  and  found  him,  and  took  him  for  a 
wonderful  afternoon — miles  away,  clear  to  the  seaside, 
where  they  lay  on  the  purple  heather  and  he  read  to 
him  out  of  the  history — ^what  was  it  he  read  to  the 
boy,  Dallas?" 

The  man  by  the  window  jumped.  "Bless  my  soul/' 
he  said,  wiping  his  eyes  vigorously;  "I  do  believe  it 
was  the  battle  of  Lake  Regillus !" 


32  THE   CASTAWAY 

'TTes,  it  was,  Dallas !  And  they  went  in  swimming 
and  had  supper  at  a  farmhouse — " 

''So  they  did!     So  I  believe  they  didP 

''And  they  didn't  get  home  till  the  moon  was  up.  Ah 
— IMlasr 

Gordon  went  over  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  other's 
arm.    "Do  you  thin2  I  shall  ever  forget  V  he  said. 

"I  imagine  that  was  the  end  of  the  tutorship/'  oh- 
served  Hobhouse. 

"Yes,  the  idiots!"  Gordon  laughed  a  little,  as  did 
the  elder  man,  though  there  was  a  suspicious  moisture 
in  the  latter's  eyes.  "They  said  he  was  spoiling  me. 
You  came  to  London,  Dallas,  and  wrote  books — amoral 
essays  and  theology — ^too  good  to  give  you  money  or 
fame.  Yes,  yes," — as  Dallas  made  a  gesture  of  dissent, 
— "much  too  good  for  this  thaw-swamped  age  of  rickety 
tragedy  and  canting  satire!  But  when  you  left  Aber- 
deen, 3^ou  left  something  behind.  It  was  a  pony — four 
sound  straight  legs,  Dallas,  to  help  out  a  crooked  one — 
a  fat,  frowsy,  hard-going  little  beast,  I've  no  doubt,  but 
it  seemed  the  greatest  thing  in  all  Scotland  to  me." 

"Pshaw!"  protested  Dallas.  "It  laid  me  only  four 
pounds,  I'll  swear." 

"Well,"  pursued  Gordon,  "the  boy  finally  dropped 
back  into  the  old  stubborn  rut.  He  went  to  Harrow 
and  came  out  a  solitary,  and  to  Cambridge  and  they 
called  him  an  atheist.  Life  hasn't  been  all  mirth  and 
innocence,  milk  and  water.  I've  seen  nearly  as  many 
lives  as  Plutarch's,  but  I'm  not  bilious  enough  to  for- 
get, Dallas.  You  were  the  first  of  all  to  write  and  con- 
gratulate me  when  the  critics  only  sneered.  When  I 
came  to  London  to  claim  my  seat  in  the  Lords   (a 


THE   CASTAWAY  33 

scurvy  honor,  but  one  has  to  do  as  other  people  do,  con- 
found them!)  without  a  single  associate  in  that  body 
to  introduce  me — I  think  a  peer  never  came  to  his 
place  so  unfriended — ^you  rode  with  me  to  the  door, 
Dallas,  you  and  I  alone,  and  so  we  rode  back  again." 

He  paused,  took  up  the  paper  Hobhouse  had  signed 
and  handed  it  to  the  man  who  still  stood  by  the  win- 
dow. 

"Dallas,'^  he  said,  "you  gave  me  my  first  ride  in  the 
saddle.  I've  been  astride  another  bigger  nag  lately — 
one  they  call  Pegasus ;  this  is  its  first  real  gallop,  and  I 
want  you  to  ride  with  me.'' 

With  a  puzzled  face  Dallas  looked  from  the  speaker 
to  the  paper.  It  was  Gordon's  copyhold  of  the  verses 
that  lay  there  in  manuscript,  legally  transferred  to  him- 
self. 

As  he  took  in  its  significance,  a  deep  flush  stole  int(> 
his  scholarly-pale  cheeks,  and  tears,  unconcealed  this 
time,  clouded  his  sight.  He  put  out  one  uncertain  hand, 
while  Hobhouse  made  a  noisy  pretense  of  gathering  to- 
gether the  loose  leaves  under  his  hands. 

"It's  for  six  hundred  pounds!"  he  said  huskily;  "six 
hundred  pounds !" 


CHAPTER  V 

AN  ANTTHINGARIAN 

Two  hours  later  Gordon  sat  alone  in  the  room,  look- 
ing out  on  the  softening  sun-glare  of  St.  James  Street 
In  the  chastened  light  the  brilliant  dark-aubum  curls 
that  clustered  over  his  colorless  face  showed  a  richer 
brown  and  under  their  long  black  lashes  his  eyes  had 
deepened  their  tint.  Near-by,  where  Park  Place  opened, 
a  fountain  played,  on  whose  bronze  rim  dusty  sparrows 
preened  and  twittered.  The  clubs  that  faced  the  street 
were  showing  signs  of  life,  and  on  the  pave  a  news- 
boy, for  the  benefit  of  late-rising  west-end  dandies,  was 
crying  the  papers. 

Gordon  was  waiting  for  Hobhouse.  They  were  to 
sup  together  this  last  night.  To-morrow  he  was  to  leave 
for  Newstead  Abbey  and  the  uncomfortable  ministra- 
tions of  his  eccentric  and  capricious  mother,  whom  he 
had  not  yet  seen.  He  had  come  back  to  his  land  and 
place  to  find  that  enmity  had  been  busy  envenoming 
his  absence,  and  the  taste  of  home  had  turned  unsweet 
to  his  palate. 

As  he  sat  now,  however,  Gordon  had  thrust  bitterness 
from  his  mood.  He  was  thinking  with  satisfaction  of 
the  copyhold  he  had  transferred.    He  had  always  de- 

(34) 


THE   CASTAWAY  35 

clared  that  for  what  he  wrote  he  would  take  no  money. 
If  these  verses — the  first  in  which  he  felt  he  had  ex- 
pressed something  of  his  real  self — if  these  brought 
recompense,  it  was  a  fitting  disposition  he  had  made. 
He  had  paid  an  old  debt  to  the  man  with  the  worn 
waistcoat  and  kindly,  studious  face — almost  the  only 
debt  of  its  kind  he  owed  in  the  world. 

The  words  with  which  Dallas  had  left  him  reclirred 
to  him — ^^'God  bless  you!" 

'Toor  old  plodding  Dallas!"  he  mused  reflectively. 
**It's  curious  how  a  man's  sense  of  gratitude  drags  up 
his  religion — if  he  lias  any  to  drag  up.  He  thinks  now 
the  Creator  put  into  my  heart  to  do  that — doesn't  give 
himself  a  bit  of  credit  for  it !" 

He  laughed  reminiscently. 

"I  don't  suppose  he  has  seen  six  hundred  pounds  ta 
spend  since  he  bought  that  pony !  He  has  had  a  hard 
row  to  hoe  all  his  life,  and  never  did  an  ounce  of  harm 
to  any  living  thing,  yet  at  the  first  turn  of  good  luck, 
he  fairly  oozes  thankfulness  to  the  Almighty.  He  is 
a  churchman  clear  through.  He  believes  in  revealed 
religion — ^though  no  religion  ever  is  revealed — and  yet 
he  doesn't  mistake  theology  for  Christianity.  He  posi- 
tively doesn't  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  cant.  Ah 
— there  goes  another  type !" 

Gordon  was  looking  at  a  square,  mottle-faced  man 
passing  slowly  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  carry- 
ing a  bundle  of  leaflets  from  which  now  and  then  he 
drew  to  give  to  a  passer-by.  He  was  high-browed,  with 
eyes  that  projected  like  an  insect's  and  were  flattish  in 
their  orbits.  He  wore  a  ministerial  cloak  over  his  street 
costume. 


36  THE    CASTAWAY 

'^There's  Cassidy/^  he  said  to  himself.  "Dr.  James 
Cassidy,  on  shore  leave,  distributing  his  little  doc* 
trinal  tracts.  I  remember  him  well.  He  is  in  the  navy 
medical  service,  but  it's  the  grief  of  his  life  he  can't 
be  a  parson.  He  talked  enough  pedantry  over  the  ship's 
table  of  the  Pylades,  while  I  was  coming  home  from 
Greece,  to  last  me  till  the  resurrection.  He  is  as  ardent 
a  predestinarian  as  any  Calvinistic  dean  in  gaiters,  and 
knows  all  the  hackneyed  catch-phrases  of  eternal  pun- 
ishment. He  has  an  itch  for  propagandaj  and  distributes 
his  tracts,  printed  at  his  own  expense,  on  the  street-cor- 
ner for  the  glory  of  theology.  He  is  the  sort  of  Chris- 
tian who  always  writes  damned  with  a  dash.  And  yet,  I 
wonder  how  much  real  true  Christianity  he  has — Chris- 
tianity like  Dallas',  I  mean.  I  remember  that  scar  on 
his  cheek ;  it  stands  for  a  thrashing  he  got  once  at  Bom- 
bay from  a  deserting  ensign  named  Trevanion — &  youth 
I  met  in  Greece  afterward,  and  had  cause  to  remember, 
by  the  way  V 

His  e^^es  had  darkened  suddenly.  His  brows  frowned, 
his  firm  white  hand  ran  over  his  cui-ls  as  though  to 
brush  away  a  disagreeable  recollection. 

'^Cassidy  would  travel  half  around  the  globe  to  find 
the  deserter  that  thrashed  him  and  land  him  in  quod. 
That  man  would  deserve  it  richly  enough,  but  would 
Cassidy's  act  be  for  the  good  of  the  king's  service  ?  No 
— for  the  satisfaction  of  James  Cassidy.  Is  that  Chris- 
tianity? Dallas  never  treasured  an  enmity  in  his  life. 
Yet  both  of  them  believe  the  same  doctrine,  worship 
the  same  God,  read  the  same  Bible.  Does  man  make 
his  beliefs?  Or  do  his  beliefs  make  him?  If  his  be- 
liefs make  man,  why  are  Dallas  and  Cassidy  so  differ- 


THE   CASTAWAY  37 

ent?  If  man  makes  his  beliefs,  why  sbould  I  not  make 
my  own  ?  I  will  be  an  Anythingarian,  and  leave  dreams 
to  Emanuel  Swedenborg!" 

His  gaze,  that  had  followed  the  clerical  figure  till  it 
passed  out  of  sight,  returned  meditatively  to  the  slaty 
white  buildings  opposite. 

"Some  people  call  me  an  atheist — I  never  could  un- 
derstand why,  though  I  prefer  Confucius  to  the  Ten 
Commandments  and  Socrates  to  St.  Paul, — ^the  two  lat- 
ter happen  to  agree  in  their  opinion  of  marriage, — 
and  I  don't  think  eating  bread  or  drinking  wine  from 
the  hand  of  an  earthly  vicar  will  make  me  an  inheritor 
of  Heaven.  Dallas  would  tell  me  not  to  reason,  but  to 
believe.  You  might  as  well  tell  a  man  not  to  wake  but 
to  sleep.  Neither  Cicero  nor  the  Messiah  could  ever 
have  altered  the  vote  of  a  single  lord  of  the  bed-cham- 
ber! And  then  to  bully  with  torments  and  all  that! 
The  menace  of  hell  makes  as  many  devils  as  the  penal 
code  makes  villains.  All  cant — Methodistical  cant — 
yet  Dallas  believes  it.  And  both  he  and  Cassidy  belong 
to  the  same  one  of  the  seventy-two  sects  that  are  tear- 
ing each  other  to  pieces  for  the  love  of  the  Lord  and 
hatred  of  each  other — ^the  sects  that  call  men  atheists  be- 
cause the  eternal  why  will  creep  into  what  they  write. 
If  it  pleases  the  Church — I  except  Dallas — ^to  damn  me 
for  asking  questions,  I  shall  be  only  one  with  some 
millions  of  scoundrels  who,  after  all,  seem  as  likely  to 
be  damned  as  ever.  As  for  immortality,  if  people 
are  to  live,  why  die  ?  And  our  carcases,  are  they  worth 
raising?  I  hope,  if  mine  is,  I  shall  have  a  better  pair 
of  legs  than  I  have  moved  on  these  three-and-twenty 


38  THE   CASTAWAY, 

years,  or  I  shall  be  sadly  behind  in  the  squeeze  into 
Paradise  V 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  He  rose  and  opened 
it.  It  was  Hobhouse.  Gordon  caught  up  his  hat  and 
they  left  the  hotel  together. 

As  they  crossed  Park  Place  a  woman,  draggled  and 
gin-besotted,  strayed  from  some  Thames-side  stews,  sat 
on  the  worn  stone  base  of  the  fountain,  leaning  un- 
certainly against  its  bronze  rim.  Her  swollen  lids  hid 
her  eyes  and  one  hand,  palm  up,  was  thrown  out  acrosa 
her  lap.  Gordon  drew  a  shilling  from  his  pocket,  and 
passing  his  arm  in  Hobhouse's,  laid  it  in  the  out- 
stretched hand.  At  the  touch  of  the  coin,  the  drab 
started  up,  looked  at  him  stupidly  an  instant,  then  with 
a  ribald  yell  of  laughter  she  flung  the  shilling  into  the 
water  and  shambled  across  the  square,  mimicking,  in 
a  hideous  sort  of  buffoonery,  the  lameness  of  his  gait. 

Gordon's  face  turned  ashen.  He  walked  on  without 
a  word,  but  his  companion  could  feel  his  hand  tremble 
against  his  sleeve.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  in  a  voice 
half-smothered,  forbidding. 

"The  old  jeer!"  he  said.  "The  very  riffraff  of  the 
street  fling  it  at  me !  Yet  I  don't  know  why  they  should 
spare  that  taunt ;  even  my  mother  did  not.  'Lame  brat  1' 
she  called  me  once  when  I  was  a  child."  He  laughed, 
jarringly,  harshly.  "Why,  only  a  few  days  before  T 
sailed  from  England,  in  one  of  her  fits  of  passion,  she 
flung  it  at  me.  'May  you  be  as  ill-formed  in  mind  a& 
you  are  in  body !'  Could  they  wish  me  worse  than  she?" 

"Gordon!"  expostulated  the  other.     "Don't!—" 

He  had  no  time  to  finish.  A  grizzled  man  in  the 
dress  of  an  upper  servant  was  approaching  them,  his 


THE   CASTAWAY  m 

rubicund  face  bearing  an  unmistakable  look  of  haste 
and  concern. 

"Well,  Fletcher?''  inquired  Gordon. 

"I  thought  your  lordship  had  gone  out  earlier.  I 
have  been  inquiring  for  you  at  the  clubs.  This  message 
has  just  come  from  Newstead." 

His  master  took  the  letter  and  read  it.  A  strange, 
slow,  remorseful  look  overspread  the  passion  on  his  face» 

"No  ill  news,  I  hope,''  ventured  Hobhouse. 

Gordon  made  no  reply.  He  crushed  the  letter  into 
his  pocket,  turned  abruptly  and  strode  up  St.  James 
Street. 

"His  lordship's  mother  died  yesterday,  Mr.  Hob* 
house,"  said  the  valet  in  a  low  voice. 

"Good  Crod!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "What  a  contre* 
temps." 

A  knot  of  loungers  were  seated  under  the  chande- 
liers in  the  bow-window  of  White's  Club  as  Gordon, 
passed  on  his  way  to  the  coach.  Beau  Brummell,  ele-^ 
gant,  spendthrift,  in  white  great-coat  and  blue  satin 
cravat  exhaling  an  odor  of  eau  de  jasmin^  lifted  a  lan- 
guid glass  to  his  eye. 

"I'll  go  something  handsome !"  cried  he ;  "I  thought 
he  was  in  Greece !" 

"He's  the  young  whelp  of  a  peer  who  made  such  a 
dust  with  that  Satire  he  wrote,"  Lord  Petersham  in- 
formed his  neighbor.  "Hero  of  the  sack  story  I  told 
you.  Took  the  title  from  his  great-uncle,  the  madman 
who  killed  old  Chaworth  in  that  tavern  duel.  House 
of  Lords  tried  him  for  murder,  you  know.  Used  to 
train  crickets  and  club  them  over  the  head  with  straws  ; 


4a  .THE   CASTAWAY 

all  of  tiiem  left  the  house  in  a  body  the  day  he  died. 
Devilish  queer  story!  Who's  the  aged  party  with  the 
portmanteaus?    Valet  ?*^ 

"Yes,"  asserted  some  one.  ^'The  old  man  was  here 
a  while  ago  trying  to  find  Gordon — with  bad  news.  His 
lordship's  mother  is  dead." 

"Saw  her  once  at  Newstead  Abbey/'  yawned  Brum- 
mell,  wearily,  dusting  his  cuffsi.  "Corpulent  termagant 
and  gave  George  no  end  of  a  row.  He  used  to  call  her 
his  'maternal  war-whoop.'  My  own  parents — ^poor  good 
people! — died  long  ago/'  he  added  reflectively;  "—cut 
their  throats  eating  peas  with  a  knife." 


CHAPTER  yi 

,WHAT  THE  DEAD  MAY  KNOW 

Gordon  was  alone  in  the  vehicle,  for  Fletcher  rode 
outside.  He  set  his  face  to  the  fogged  pane,  catching 
the  panorama  of  dark  hedges,  gouged  gravelly  runnels 
and  stretches  of  murky  black,  with  occasional  instan- 
taneous sense  of  detail — dripping  bank,  sodden  rhodo- 
dendron and  mildewed  masonry — ^vivid  in  a  dull,  yellow, 
soundless  flare  of  July  lightning.  A  gauze  of  unbroken 
grayness,  a  straggling  light — ^the  lodge.  A  battle- 
mented  wall  plunging  out  of  the  darlmess — and  Gordon 
saw  the  Abbey,  its  tiers  of  ivied  cloisters  uninhabited 
since  Henry  the  Eighth  battered  the  old  pile  to  ruin,  its 
gaunt  and  unsightly  forts  built  for  some  occupant's 
whim,  and  the  wavering,  fog-wreathed  lake  reflecting 
lighted  windows.  This  was  Newstead  in  which  the 
bearers  of  his  title  had  lived  and  died,  the  gloomy  seat 
of  an  ancient  house  stained  by  murder  and  insanity, 
of  which  he  was  the  sole  representative. 

What  was  he  thinking  as  he  sat  in  the  gloomy  dining- 
room,  with  Rushton,  the  footman  he  had  trained  to  his 
own  service,  standing  behind  his  chair  ?  Of  his  mother 
first  of  all.  He  had  never,  even  as  a  child,  distinguished 
a  sign  of  real  tenderness  in  her  moments  of  tempes- 

(41)- 


42  THE   CASTAWAY 

tuous  caresses.  His  maturer  years  had  grown  to  regard 
her  with  a  half-scomful,  half  good-humored  tolerance. 
He  had  shrugged  at  her  tempers,  dubbing  her  "The 
Honorable  Kitty''  or  his  "Amiable  Alecto."  His  letters 
to  her  had  shown  only  a  nice  sense  of  filial  duty ;  many 
of  them  began  with  "Dear  Madam";  more  had  been 
signed  simply  with  his  name.  Yet  now  he  felt  an  aching 
hope  that  in  her  seclusion  she  had  not  seen  the  unkind- 
est  of  the  stories  of  him.  His  half -sister — ^now  on  her 
way  from  the  north  of  England — absorbed  with  her 
family  cares,  would  have  missed  the  brunt  of  the  at- 
tacks ;  his  mother  had  been  within  their  range.  He  re- 
called with  a  pang  that  she  had  treasured  with  a  degree 
of  pride  a  single  review  of  his  earliest  book  which  had 
not  joined  in  the  sneering  chorus. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  dismissed  the  footman,  and 
alone  passed  to  the  hall  and  ascended  the  stair.  At 
the  turn  of  the  balustrade  a  shaded  lamp  drowsed  like  a 
monster  glow-worm.  In  his  own  room  a  low  fire  burned, 
winking  redly  from  the  coronetted  bed-posts,  and  a 
lighted  candle  stood  on  the  dressing-table.  He  looked 
around  the  familiar  apartment  a  moment  uncertainly, 
then  crossed  to  a  carved  cabinet  above  a  writing-desk 
and  took  therefrom  a  bottle  of  claret.  The  cabinet 
had  belonged  to  his  father,  dead  many  years  before. 
Gordon  thought  of  him  as  he  stood  with  the  bottle  in 
his  hand,  staring  fixedly  at  the  dull,  carved  ebony  of 
the  swinging  door. 

His  father !  "Mad  Jack  Gordon"  the  world  had  called 
him  when  he  ran  away  with  the  Marchioness  of  Car- 
mathen  to  break  her  heart!  Handsome  he  had  been 
still  when  he  married  for  her  money  the  heiress  of 


THE   CASTAWAY  45 

Giglit,  Gordon's  mother.  A  stinging  niemory  recalled 
the  only  glimpse  he  had  ever  had  of  that  father — a  tall 
man  in  uniform  on  an  Aberdeen  street,  looking  critically 
at  a  child  with  a  lame  leg. 

Grordon  winced  painfully.  He  felt  with  a  sharper 
agony  the  sensitive  pang  of  the  cripple,  the  shame  of 
misshapenness  that  all  his  life  had  clung  like  an  old* 
man-of-the-sea.  It  had  not  only  stung  his  childhood; 
it  had  stolen  from  him  the  romance  of  his  youth — ^the- 
one  gleam  that  six  years  ago  had  died. 

Six  years!  For  a  moment  time  fell  away  like  rot* 
ten  shale  from  about  a  crystal.  The  room,  the  wine* 
cabinet,  faded  into  a  dim  background,  and  on  this,  a* 
if  on  a  theater  curtain,  dissolving  pictures  painted  them- 
selves flame-like. 

He  was  back  in  his  Harrow  days  now,  at  home  for 
his  last  vacation. 

''George,''  his  mother  had  remarked  one  day,  looking- 
up  from  a  letter  she  was  reading,  "I've  some  news  for 
you.    Take  out  your  handkerchief,  for  you  will  need  it."" 

''Nonsense !    What  is  it  ?" 

"Mary  Chaworth  is  married.'^ 

"Is  that  all?"  he  had  replied  coldly;  but  an  expres- 
sion, peculiar,  impossible  to  describe,  had  passed  over 
his  face.  He  had  never  afterward  seen  her  or  spokea 
her  name. 

"Mary!"  he  murmured,  and  his  hand  set  down  the 
bottle  on  the  table.  Love — such  love  as  his  verses  told 
of — ^he  had  come  to  consider  purely  subjective,  a  mirage,. 
a  simulacrum  to  which  actual  life  possessed  no  counter- 
part.   Yet  at  that  moment  he  was  feeling  the  wraith  of 


44  THE  CASTAWAY 

an  old  thrill,  his  nostrils  smelling  a  perfume  like  a  dead 
pansy^s  ghost. 

He  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  bottle  and  his  fingers 
clenched.  How  it  hurt  him — ^the  sudden  stab!  For 
memory  had  played  him  a  trick ;  it  had  dragged  a  voice 
out  of  the  past.  It  was  her  voice — ^her  words  that  she 
had  uttered  in  a  careless  sentence  meant  for  other  ears, 
one  that  through  those  years  had  tumbled  and  reechoed 
in  some  under  sea-cavern  of  his  mind — "Do  you  thinh 
I  could  ever  care  for  that  lame  loyf* 

He  smiled  grimly.  She  had  been  right.  Nature  had 
set  him  apart,  made  him  a  loup-garou,  a  solitary  hob- 
goblin. He  had  been  unclubbable,  sauvage,  even  at 
Cambridge.  And  yet  he  had  had  real  friendships  there ; 
one  especially. 

Gordon^s  free  hand  fumbled  for  his  fob  and  his  fin- 
gers closed  on  a  little  cornelian  heart.  It  had  been  a 
keepsake  from  his  college  classmate,  Matthews,  drowned 
in  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Cam. 

He  released  the  bottle  hurriedly,  strode  to  the  window 
and  flung  it  open.  A  gust  of  rain  struck  his  face  and 
spluttered  in  the  candle,  and  the  curtain  flapped  like 
the  wing  of  some  ungainly  bird.  Out  in  the  dark,  be- 
neath a  clump  of  larches,  glimmered  whitely  the  monu- 
ment he  had  erected  to  "Boatswain/^  his  Newfoundland. 
The  animal  had  gone  mad. 

"Some  curse  hangs  over  me  and  mine  V  he  muttered. 
^'I  never  could  keep  alive  evea  a  dog  that  I  liked  or  that 
liked  me  V 

A  combined  rattle  and  crash  behind  him  made  him 
turn.  The  wind  had  blown  shut  the  door  of  the  cabi- 
net with  a  smart  bang,  and  a  yellow  object,  large  and 


THE    CASTAWAY  45 

round,  had  toppled  from  its  shelf,  fallen  and  rolled  to 
his  very  feet. 

He  started  back,  his  nerves  for  the  instant  shaken.  It 
was  a  skull,  mottled  like  polished  tortoise-shell,  mounted 
in  dull  silver  as  a  drinking  cup.  He  had  unearthed  the 
relic  years  before  with  a  heap  of  stone  coffins  amid  the 
rubbish  of  the  Abbey^s  ruined  priory — grim  reminder 
of  some  old  friar — and  its  mounting  had  been  his  own 
fancy.    He  had  forgotten  its  very  existence. 

Now,  as  it  lay  supine,  yet  intrusive,  the  symbol  at 
one  time  of  lastingness  and  decay,  it  filled  him  with  a 
painful  fascination. 

Picking  it  up,  he  set  it  upright  on  the  desk,  seized 
the  bottle,  knocked  off  its  top  against  the  marble  man- 
tel and  poured  the  fantastic  goblet  full. 

^'Death  and  life  V  he  mused.  "One  feeds  the  other, 
each  in  its  turn.  Life!  yet  it  should  not  be  too  long; 
I  have  no  conception  of  any  existence  which  duration 
would  not  render  tiresome.  How  else  fell  the  angels  ? 
They  were  immortal,  heavenly  and  happy.  It  is  the 
lastingness  of  life  that  is  terrible;  I  see  no  horror  in  a 
dreamless  sleep.^' 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  the  goblet,  but  withdrew  it. 

"iSTo — wait!'^  he  said,  and  seating  himself  at  the 
desk,  he  seized  a  pen.  The  lines  he  wrote,  rapidly  and 
with  scarcely  an  alteration,  were  to  live  for  many  a 
long  year — ^index  fingers  pointing  back  to  that  dark 
mood  that  consumed  him  then : 

"Start  not—nor  deem  my  spirit  fled: 

In  me  behold  the  only  skull, 

From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 

Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 


46.  THE   CASTAWAY 

I  lived,  I  loved,  I  quaffed,  like  thee: 
I  died:  let  earth  my  bones  resign. 

Fill  up — thou  canst  not  injure  me; 
The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape, 
Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood;' 

And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 

The  drink  of  gods,  than  reptile's  food. 

•  Quaff  while  thou  canst:  another  race. 
When  thou  and  thine,  like  me,  are  sped. 
May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace. 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead." 

He  repeated  the  last  stanza  aloud  and  raised  the  gob- 
let in  both  hands. 

^^Ehyming  and  revelling — what  else  counts?  To 
drink  the  wine  of  youth  to  the  dregs  and  then — ^good 
night!  Is  there  anything  beyond?  Who  knows?  He 
who  can  not  tell !  Who  tells  us  there  is  ?  He  who  does 
not  know !" 

Did  the  dead  know  ? 

He  set  the  wine  down,  pushing  it  from  him,  sprang 
up,  seized  the  candle  and  entered  the  room  on  the  other 
side  of  the  corridor.  The  bed-curtains  were  drawn  close 
and  a  Bible  lay  open  on  the  night-stand.  He  wondered 
with  a  kind  of  impersonal  pity  if  the  book  had  held 
comfort  for  her  at  the  last. 

He  held  the  candle  higher  so  its  rays  lighted  the 
page:  But  the  Lord  shall  give  thee  there  a  trembling 
heart,  and  failing  of  eyes,  and  sorrow  of  mind.  .  .  . 
In  the  morning  thou  shalt  say.  Would  God  it  were  even! 
and  at  even  thou  shalt  say.  Would  God  it  were  morning  ! 

It  stared  at  him  plainly  in  black  letters,  an  age-old 


THE   CASTAWAY,  4-^ 

agony  of  wretchedness.  Had  this  been  the  keynote  of 
her  lonely,  fitful,  vehement  life?  Had  years  of  misery 
robbed  her — as  it  had  robbed  him,  too?  A  distressed 
doubt,  like  a  dire  finger  of  apprehension,  touched  him; 
he  put  out  his  hand  and  drew  aside  the  curtains. 

Looking,  he  shuddered.  Death  had  lent  her  its  mys- 
tery, its  ineffaceable  dignity.  He  recognized  it  with 
a  new  and  inexplicable  feeling,  like  rising  from  the 
grave.  Back  of  the  placid  look,  in  abeyance,  in  the  stir- 
lessness  of  the  unringed  hands — she  had  lost  her  wed- 
ding-ring years  ago — some  quality,  strange,. unintimate, 
lay  confronting  him.  He  remembered  his  words  to  Hob- 
house  in  the  street — ^words  that  had  not  been  cold  on  his 
lips  when  he  read  Fletcher's  message.  Ever  since,  they, 
had  lain  rankling  like  a  raw  burn  in  some  crevice  of  his 
brain.  "Lame  brat!"  And  yet,  beneath  her  frantic 
rages,  under  the  surface  he  had  habitually  disregarded^ 
what  if  in  her  own  way  she  had  really  loved  him ! 

A  clutching  pain  took  possession  of  him,  a  sense  of 
physical  sickness  and  anguish.  He  dropped  the  cur- 
tain, and  stumbled  from  the  room,  down  the  long  stair, 
calling  for  the  footman. 

"Kushton,''  he  shouted,  "get  the  muffles !  Let  us  have 
a  bout  like  the  old  times."  He  threw  off  his  coat, 
pushed  the  chairs  aside  and  bared  his  arms.  "The 
gloves,  Eushton,  and  be  quick  about  it !" 

The  footman  hesitated,  a  half -scared  expression  in 
his  look. 

"Never  fear,"  said  Gordon,  and  laughed — a  tighten- 
ing laugh  that  strained  the  cords  of  his  throat.  "Put 
them  on !  That's  right !  What  are  you  staring  at?  Do 
you  think  she  will  hear  you?    Not  she!    Put  up  your 


AS  THE    CASTAWAY 

hands — so !  Touched,  by  the  Lord !  Not  up  to  your  old 
style,  Eushton !  You  never  used  to  spar  so  villainously. 
You  will  disgrace  the  fancy.  Ah-h  V  And  he  knocked 
him  sprawling. 

Eushton  scrambled  to  his  feet  as  the  housekeeper  en- 
tered, dismay  upon  her  mask-like  relic  of  a  face.  Gordon 
was  very  white  and  both  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

liong  after  midnight,  when  the  place  was  quiet, 
the  housekeeper  heard  an  unaccustomed  sound  issuing 
from  the  chamber  where  the  dead  woman  lay.  She 
took  a  light  and  entered.  The  candle  had  burned  out, 
and  she  saw  Gordon  sitting  in  the  dark  beside  the  bed. 

He  spoke  in  a  broken  voice : 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Muhy  he  said,  "she  was  my  mother! 
After  all,  one  can  have  but  one  in  this  world,  and  I 
have  only  just  found  it  out  !'* 


CHAPTEE  yil 

JTHB  TOUTH  IN"  PLEET  PRISON 

Behind  the  closed  shutters  of  the  book-shop  which 
bore  the  sign  of  "The  Juvenile  Library/^  in  the  musty 
room  where  George  Gordon  had  burned  the  errant  copies 
of  his  ubiquitous  Satire,  old  William  Godwin  sat  reading 
by  a  guttering  candle,  Livy's  Roman  History  in  the 
original.  It  was  his  favorite  book,  and  in  the  early  even- 
ings, when  not  writing  his  crabbed  column  for  the 
Courier,  or  caustic  diatribes  for  the  reviews,  he  was  apt 
to  be  reading  it.  A  sound  in  the  living-room  above 
drew  his  eyes  from  the  black-letter  page. 

"Jane  V  he  called  morosely — "Jane  Clermont  I" 

A  lagging  step  came  down  the  stair,  and  a  girl  en- 
tered, black-eyed,  Creole  in  effect.  Her  cheeks  held  the 
flame  of  the  wild-cherry  leaf. 

"Where  is  your  sister?'' 

"I  have  no  sister.'' 

The  old  man  struck  the  table  with  his  open  hand* 
"Where  is  Mary,  I  say?" 

"At  the  door." 

"Go  and  see  what  she  is  doing." 
(49) 


60  THE   CASTAWAY. 

The  girl  stood  still,  regarding  her  stepfather  with  a 
look  that  under  its  beauty  had  a  sullen  half -contempt. 

''Why  don't  you  do  as  I  tell  you?'' 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  a  spy  for  you,  even  if  you  did 
marry  my  mother.    I'm  tired  of  it." 

The  anger  on  the  old  man's  face  harshened.  "If  you 
were  my  own  flesh  and  blood,"  he  said  sternly,  "I  would 
flog  that  French  impudence  of  yours  to  death.  As  long 
as  you  eat  my  bread,  you  will  obey  me." 

She  looked  at  him  with  covert  mockery  on  her  full 
lips. 

"I'm  not  a  child  any  longer,"  she  said  as  she  turned 
flauntingly  away;  "I  could  earn  my  bread  easier  than 
by  dusting  tumble-down  book-shelves.  Do  you  think  I 
don't  know  that?" 

To  William  Godwin  this  defiant  untutored  girl  had 
been  a  thorn  in  the  side — a  perpetual  slur  and  affront  to 
the  irksome  discipline  he  laid  upon  his  own  pliant  Mary, 
the  child  of  that  first  wife  whose  loss  had  warped  his 
manhood.  Now  he  saw  her  as  a  live  danger,  a  flagrant 
menace  whose  wildness  would  infect  his  own  daughter. 
It  was  this  red-lipped  vixen  who  was  teaching  her  the 
spirit  of  disobedience ! 

He  raised  his  voice  and  called  sharply :    '^ary !" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  he  shuffled  down  the  shabby 
hall  to  the  street  door.  The  old  man  glowered  at  the 
slender,  beardless  figure  of  the  youth  who  stood  with 
her — ^the  brown,  long  coat  with  curling  lamb's-wool 
collar  and  cuffs,  its  pockets  bulging  with  mysterious 
books.  In  a  senile  rage,  he  ordered  his  daughter  indoors. 

Passers-by  stopped  to  stare  at  the  object  of  his  rancor, 
standing  uncertainly  in  the  semi-dusk,  a  brighter  ap- 


THE   CASTAWAY  51 

parition,  witH  luminous  eyes  and  extravagant  locks. 
Words  came  thickly  to  the  old  man;  he  launched  into 
invective,  splenetic  and  intemperate,  at  which  the  listen- 
ers tittered. 

As  it  chanced,  a  pedestrian  heard  the  name  he 
mouthed — a  man  sharp-featured  and  ill  dressed.  With 
a  low  whistle  he  drew  a  soiled  slip  of  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  consulted  it  by  a  street  lamp,  his  grimy 
forefinger  running  down  the  list  of  names  it  contained. 

'^I  thought  so.  I've  a  knack  for  names,'^  he  muttered, 
and  shouldered  through  the  bystanders. 

"Not  so  fast,  young  master,'^  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  youth's  arm ;  "t'other's  the  way  to  the  Fleet.'* 

The  other  drew  back  with  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "The 
Fleet!"  he  echoed. 

"Aye,"  said  the  bailiff,  winking  to  the  crowd;  "the 
pretty  jug  for  folk  as  spend  more  than  they  find  in 
pocket;  with  a  nice  grating  to  see  your  friends  so  gen- 
teel like." 

Breaking  from  her  father's  hand,  the  girl  in  the  door- 
way ran  out  with  fear  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"Oh,  where  are  you  taking  him  ?"  she  cried. 

The  fellow  smirked.  "I'm  just  going  to  show  his 
honor  to  a  hotel  I  know,  till  he  has  time  to  see  his  pal 
Dellevelly  of  Golden  Square  to  borrow  a  tidy  eighteen 
pound  ten,  which  a  bookseller  not  so  far  off  will  be 
precious  glad  to  get." 

"Eighteen  pounds!"  gasped  the  youth,  with  a  hys- 
teric laugh.  "Debtors'  prison  for  only  eighteen  pounds ! 
But  I  have  the  books  still — ^he  can  have  them  back." 

"After  you've  done  with  'em,  eh?"  said  the  bailiff. 


53  THE    CASTAWAY 

''Oh,  I  know  your  young  gentlemen's  ways.  Come 
along/' 

"Father!"  cried  the  girl,  indignantly,  as  the  bailiff 
dropped  a  heavy  grasp  on  the  lamb's-wool  collar. 
"You'll  not  let  them  take  Shelley.  You'll  wait  for  the 
money,  father." 

"Go  into  the  house !"  thundered  the  old  man.  "He's 
a  good-for-nothing  vagabond,  I  tell  you!"  He  thrust 
her  back,  and  the  slammed  door  shut  between  her  and 
the  youth  standing  in  the  "bailiff's  clutch,  half-wonder- 
ingly  and  disdainfully,  like  a  bright-eyed,  restless  fox 
amid  sour  grapes. 

"Go  to  your  room !"  commanded  her  father,  and  the 
girl  slowly  obeyed,  dashing  away  her  tears,  while  the  old 
bookseller  went  back  to  the  cluttered  shop  and  his  read- 
ing of  Livy's  Eoman  History. 

In  the  chamber  the  girl  entered,  Jane  Clermont  looked 
up  half -scornfully. 

"I  heard  it  all,"  she  burst;  "you  are  a  little  fool  to 
take  it — scolding  you  like  a  child,  and  before  all  those 
people !" 

Mary  opened  a  bureau  drawer  and  took  out  a  small 
rosewood  box  containing  her  one  dearest  possession. 
As  she  stood  with  her  treasure  in  her  hand,  Jane  jumped 
to  her  feet. 

"I've  borne  it  as  long  as  I  can  myself,"  she  cried  under 
her  breath.  "I'm  going  to  run  away  before  I  am  a  fort- 
night older." 

"Eunaway?    Where?" 

Jane  had  begun  to  dance  noiselessly  on  tiptoe  with 
swift  bacchante  movements.     "I'm  going  to  be  an  ac- 


THE    CASTAWAY  53 

tress/^  she  confided,  as  she  stood  at  a  pirouette,  ^Tve 
been  to  see  Mr.  Sheridan — the  greaf  Mr.  Sheridan — 
and  he's  promised  to  get  me  a  trial  in  a  real  part  at 
Drury  Lane  V  She  paused,  struck  with  the  determina- 
tion in  the  other's  face.    "What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  Shelley." 

"Good !  I'll  go  with  you.  But  you  have  no  money. 
How  can  you  help  him  ?" 

Mary  held  out  the  little  box. 

*^our  mother's  brooch !"  cried  Jane.  "Do  you  really 
care  as  much  as  that  for  him?" — a  little  satirically. 

Her  companion  was  dressing  for  the  street  with  rapid, 
uncertain  fingers.    "It's  all  I  have,"  she  answered. 

They  sat  in  silence  till  they  heard  the  outer  door 
bolted  and  knew  the  old  man  below  had  gone  to  his  own 
room.  Then  they  stole  softly  down  the  creaking  stair, 
undid  the  outer  door  cautiously  and  went  out  into  the 
evening  bustle. 

The  pavements  were  crowded,  and  Mary  clung  to  her 
companion's  arm,  but  Jane  walked  nonchalantly,  her 
dark  eyes  snapping  with  adventure.  Not  a  few  turned 
to  gaze  at  her  piquant  beauty.  To  one  whose  way  led  in 
the  same  direction  it  brought  a  thought  of  a  distant  land. 

"In  a  Suliote  shawl  she  might  be  a  maid  of  Misso- 
longhi !"  mused  George  Gordon,  as  he  strode  across  Fleet 
market  behind  the  two  girls.  "Greece !  I  wonder  when 
I  shall  see  it  again !" 

A  shade  of  melancholy  was  in  his  face  as  he  walked 
on,  but  not  discontent.  The  resentment  of  his  London 
home-coming  and  the  desolation  of  that  first  black  night 
at  Newstead  he  had  overcome.  With  the  companionship 
of  his  sister  and  in  the  calm  freshness  of  frosty  lake  and 


54  THE   CASTAWAY 


rolling  wind-washed  moor  he  had  recovered  some  of  the 
buoyant  spirits  so  suddenly  stunned  by  the  impact  of 
the  slanders  that  had  met  him.  The  London  papers  he 
had  left  unopened,  from  a  sensitive  dread  of  seeing  the 
recital  of  his  mother's  well-known  eccentricities,  which 
her  death  might  furnish  excuse  for  recalling.  His  new 
book,  whose  stanzas  stood  like  mental  mile-posts  of  his 
journey,  had  almost  finished  its  progress  through  the 
press.  In  its  verses  he  hoped  to  stand  for  something 
more  than  the  petty  cavilling  of  personal  paragraphists. 
It  was  to  his  publisher's  he  was  bound  this  night  when 
that  wistful  thought  of  the  shores  he  best  loved  had 
shadowed  his  mood. 

Crossing  the  open  space  on  which  faced  the  dark  brick 
front  and  barred  windows  of  the  Fleet  Prison,  he  saw 
the  two  girlish  forms  pause  before  its  dismal  entrance, 
where  stood  the  shirt-sleeved  warden,  pipe  in  mouth. 
What  errand  could  have  brought  them  there  unaccom* 
panied  at  such  an  hour,  he  wondered. 

Just  then  the  clock  of  St.  Dunstan's-in-the-West  be- 
gan a  ponderous  stroke,  and  the  warden  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"Eight  o'clock,"  he  announced  gruffly.  "Prison's 
closed." 

A  cry  of  dismay  fell  from  Mary's  lips — a  cry  freighted 
with  tears.    "Then  we  can't  get  poor  Bysshe !" 

Gordon  turned  back  and  approached  the  dingy  portal. 
"I  have  a  fancy  to  see  the  inside  of  the  old  rookery, 
warden,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  these  visitors  may  enter 
with  me."  His  hand  was  in  his  pocket  and  a  jingle 
caught  the  warden's  acute  ear.  The  gruff  demeanor  of 
the  custodian  merged  precipitately  into  the  obsequious^ 


THE   CASTAWAY  55 

He  pushed  open  the  gate  with  alacrity  and  preceded 
them  into  the  foul  area  of  the  prison. 

Mary  threw  Gordon  a  quick  glance  of  gratitude  as  she 
passed  into  the  warden's  office — ^to  return  without  the 
little  rosewood  box.  Across  the  look  had  flitted  a  shud- 
der at  the  shouts  and  oaths  that  tainted  the  inclosure, 
and  as  she  emerged  he  caught  the  gleam  of  relief  with 
which  she  saw  him  still  in  the  court. 

A  moment  later  the  bailiff,  who  had  figured  in  the 
scene  before  Godwin's  shop,  was  leading  the  way  along 
a  noisome  gallery.  It  was  littered  with  refuse  of  vege- 
table and  provision-men  who  cried  their  wares  all  day 
up  and  down.  At  one  side  gaped  a  coffee-house,  at  the 
other  an  ordinary,  both  reeking  with  stale  odors  and 
tobacco-smoke,  and  a  noisy  club  was  meeting  in  the  tap- 
room. Laughter  and  the  click  of  glasses  floated  in  the 
air,  a  suffocating  atmosphere  of  tawdry  boisterousness. 

Jane  Clermont  stole  more  than  one  sidelong  glance 
as  Gordon's  uneven  step  followed.  At  length  the  bailiff 
paused  and  unlocked  a  barred  door.  Mary  knocked,  but 
there  was  no  answer ;  she  pushed  the  door  open  and  the 
girls  entered. 

From  his  station  in  the  background,  Gordon  saw  a 
dingy  chamber,  possessing  as  furniture  only  a  cot,  a 
chair,  and  a  narrow  board  mantel,  on  which  a  candle 
*was  burning,  stuck  upright  in  its  own  tallow.  Standing 
before  this  breast-high  impromptu  table,  a  pamphlet 
spread  open  upon  it,  his  shoulders  stooped,  his  eyes  de- 
vouring the  page,  was  the  room's  solitary  occupant.  He 
had  thrown  off  the  long  coat  with  the  lamb's-wool  trim- 
ming, his  collar  was  open  leaving  his  throat  unfettered, 
and  his  long  locks  hung  negligently  about  his  face. 


56  THE    castaway; 

^'Bysslie !"  cried  Mary,  ecstatically. 

The  figure  by  the  mantel  turned,  flinging  back  his 
tumbled  hair  as  if  to  toss  away  his  abstraction. 

'^Mary  V  he  echoed,  and  sprang  forward.  ^^What  are 
you  doing  here  ?'' 

^'We've  come  for  you.  The  debt  is  cancelled.  To 
think  of  3^our  being  shut  up  here!"  she  said  with  a 
shiver,  as  a  burst  of  noises  rose  from  the  court  below. 

'^Cancelled!"  he  repeated  with  a  hesitating  laugh. 
'TTour  father  would  better  have  let  me  stay,  Mary.  I 
shall  be  just  as  bad  again  in  a  month.  I  couldn't  re- 
sist buying  a  book  if  it  meant  the  gallows  V 

She  did  not  imdeceive  him,  but  handed  him  his 
great-coat,  and  gathered  the  volumes  tossed  on  to  the 
couch  to  stuff  into  its  bulging  pockets. 

Jane  had  been  scrutinizing  the  room.  ^'What's  that  ?" 
she  inquired,  pointing  to  a  plate  of  food  which  sat  on  the 
far  end  of  the  mantel,  as  though  it  had  been  impatiently 
pushed  aside. 

The  youth  colored  uneasily.  "Why,  I  suppose  that 
was  my  supper,"  he  said  shamefacedly;  "I  must  have 
forgotten  to  eat  it." 

Jane  laughed,  picked  up  the  pamphlet  for  which  the 
meal  had  been  forgotten,  and  read  the  title  aloud, 
*^  ^Twelve  Butchers  for  a  Jury  and  a  Jeffreys  for  a 
Judge.  An  Appeal  against  the  Pending  Frame-Breakers 
Bill  to  legalize  the  Murder  of  the  Stocking- Weavers.  By 
Percy  Bysshe  Shelley !' " 

''Frame-Breakers !"  she  finished  disdainfully.  "Stock- 
ing-Weavers !" 

Shelley's  delicate  face  flushed  as  he  folded  the  pam- 
phlet. 


THE   CASTAWAY  57 

^^Are  they  not  men  T'  lie  exclaimed.  "And  being  men, 
have  they  no  natural  rights?  Is  British  law  to  shoot 
them  down  like  wild  beasts  for  the  defense  of  their 
livelihood?  Oh,  if  I  were  only  a  peer,  with  a  voice  in 
Parliament  !^^  He  spoke  with  fierce  emphasis,  but  in 
tone  soft,  vibrating  and  persuasive — a  sustained,  song- 
like quality  in  it. 

"Percy  Bysshe  Shelley !''  Gordon's  mind  recited  the 
name  wonderingly.  He  remembered  a  placard  he  had 
«een  in  a  book-shop  window :  "For  writing  the  which 
he  stands  expelled  from  University  College,  Oxford.^'  So 
this  was  the  heir  to  a  baronetcy,  the  author  of  "Queen 
Mab,"  the  stripling  iconoclast  who  had  laughed  at  ful- 
minating attorney-generals,  had  fled  to  Lynmouth  beach 
— ^where  he  had  spent  his  days  making  little  wooden 
boxes,  inclosed  in  resined  bladders,  weighted  with  lead 
and  equipped  with  tiny  mast  and  sail,  and  had  sent 
them,  filled  with  his  contraband  writings,  out  on  the 
rollers  of  the  Atlantic  in  the  hope  that  they  might  reach 
some  free  mind  on  the  Irish  shore  or  on  some  ocean  brig. 

Gordon  left  his  post  and  went  slowly  down  the  stair, 
past  the  blackened  office,  wherein  the  warden  sat  ad- 
miringly fingering  the  brooch  that  had  wiped  out  a  debt 
to  old  William  Godwin  the  bookseller,  and  into  the 
street. 

The  words  of  the  youth  he  had  seen  sounded  in  his 
brain :  "If  I  were  only  a  peer,  with  a  voice  in  Parlia- 
ment P 

That  voice  was  his.  When  had  he  used  it  for  his 
fellow-man  ? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  SAVAGE  SFUR 

John  Murray,  anax  of  publishers,  sat  that  evening  in 
his  shop  in  Fleet  Street  He  was  in  excellent  humor, 
having  dined  both  wisely  and  well.  His  hair  was  sparse 
above  a  smooth-shaven,  oval  face,  in  which  lurked  good- 
humor  and  the  wit  which  brought  to  his  drawing-room 
the  most  brilliant  men  of  literary  London,  as  his  genius 
as  a  publisher  had  given  him  the  patronage  of  the  great- 
est peers  of  the  kingdom,  and  even  of  the  prince  regent. 
His  black  coat  was  of  the  plainest  broadcloth  and  his 
neck-cloth  of  the  finest  linen.  Dallas  sat  opposite,  his 
scholarly  face  keen  and  animated.  The  frayed  waist- 
coat was  no  longer  in  evidence,  and  the  worn  hat  had 
given  place  to  a  new  broad  brim. 

'TTes,''  said  the  man  of  books,  "we  shall  formally  pub- 
lish to-morrow.  I  wrote  his  lordship,  asking  him  to 
come  up  to  town,  to  urge  him  to  eliminate  several  of  the 
stanzas  in  case  we  reprint  soon.  They  will  only  make 
him  more  enemies.  He  has  enough  now,''  he  added  rue- 
fully. 

"You  still  think  as  well  of  it  ?" 

The  publisher  pushed  back  his  glasses  with  enthu- 
siasm. "It  is  splendid — ^unique."  He  pulled  out  a  desk- 
drawer  and  took  therefrom  a  printed  volume,  poising 
it  proudly,  as  a  father  dandles  his  first-born,  and,  turn- 

(58) 


THE  CASTAWAY  6^ 

ing  its  pages,  with  lifted  forefinger  and  rolling  voice, 
read : 

"Fair  Greece!  sad  relic  of  departed  worth! 

Immortal,  though  no  more;  though  fallen,  great  I 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scattered  children  forth. 
And  long  accustomed  bondage  uncreate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilom  did  await. 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  the  willing  doom. 

In  bleak  Thermopylae's  sepulchral  strait — 
Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb  ? 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild ; 

Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields. 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled, 

And  still  his  honeyed  wealth  Hymettus  yields ; 

There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
Tlie  f reeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain  air ; 

Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare ; 
Art,  glory,  freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

Hereditary  bondsmen!    Know  ye  not 

Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow  ? 
By  their  right  arms  the  conquest  must  be  wrought. 

Will  Gaul  or  Muscovite  redress  ye?    No! 

True,  they  may  lay  your  proud  despoiler  low. 
But  not  for  you  will  freedom's  altars  flame. 

Shades  of  the  Helots !  triumph  o'er  your  foe  1 
Greece !  change  thy  lords,  thy  state  is  still  the  same ; 
Thy  glorious  day  is  o'er,  but  not  thine  years  of  shame." 

He  broke  off  abruptly.  "The  pamphleteers  have  heea 
busy  since  he  landed,''  he  admitted,  a  trace  of  shrewd- 
ness edging  his  tone,  "but  the  abuse  seems  to  have 
dulled  now.     I  have  been  waiting  for  that  to  issue.'' 

"His  lordship,  sir,"  announced  a  clerk,  and  the  pro- 
prietor sprang  to  his  feet  to  greet  his  visitor. 


40  THE    CASTAWAY 

Gordon^s  eyes  lighted  with  pleasure  as  they  fell  on 
Dallas,  noting  the  change  the  few  months  of  relief  from 
the  galling  pressure  of  poverty  had  wrought  in  the  fea- 
tures no  less  than  the  attire.  "Are  the  types  ready?'' 
he  asked  the  publisher. 

"Yes,  my  lord.  We  distribute  to-morrow.  I  have 
marked  a  few  stanzas,  however,  that  I  hesitate  to  in- 
<jlude  in  a  further  edition.  Here  they  are.  You  will 
guess  my  reason.'^ 

The  other  looked,  his  eyes  reading,  but  his  mind 
thinking  further  than  the  page. 

"London!    Right  well  thou  know'st  the  hour  of  prayer;' 

Then  thy  spruce  citizen,  washed  artisan 
And  smug  apprentice  gulp  their  weekly  air." 

The  lines  were  bitter  indeed !  They  had  been  written 
when  he  was  still  smarting  under  the  lash  of  his  earlier 
critics,  in  the  first  months  of  his  journeyings,  before 
the  great  wind  of  travel  had  swept  his  mind  clear  and 
sweet  for  the  latter  harmonies  of  his  poesy.  In  them 
lay  the  hurt  sneer  of  a  personal  resentment — ^the  re- 
sentment that  had  been  in  his  soul  when  he  sailed  from 
England;  that  had  sprung  alive  again  on  his  return, 
when  he  learned  that  his  enemies  had  employed  his 
absence  to  bespatter  his  name  with  lying  tales. 

Yet  that  was  past.  He  had  oast  it  behind  him.  And 
should  he  carry  the  old  spirit  into  this  better  and  nobler 
work,  to  deflect  his  message  from  its  significance  into 
cheaper  channels  of  abuse?  His  thought  recurred  to 
the  youth  in  the  bare  room  of  the  Fleet.  Even  there, 
in  a  debtors'  prison,  Shelley  had  forgot  his  own  plight, 
and  sunk  individual  resentment  in  desire  for  wider 


THE    CASTAWAY  61 

justice!  Should  he  be  less  big  in  tolerance  than  thai 
youth?  So  he  asked  himself,  as  the  publisher  casually 
fluttered  the  leaves  of  an  uncut  review  which  the  clerk 
had  laid  on  his  desk. 

All  at  once  John  Murray's  eyes  stopped,  fixed  on  a 
page.  He  made  an  exclamation  of  irritation  and  cha- 
grin, and  pushed  it  out  toward  Gordon.  It  was  a  fresh 
copy  of  the  Scourge,  and  the  leader  Gordon  read,  while 
the  publisher  paced  the  floor  with  nervously  angry 
strides,  was  the  one  in  which  had  been  steeped  the 
anonymous  venom  of  William  Godwin  the  bookseller^ 
a  page  whose  caption  was  his  own  name: 

"It  may  be  asked  whether  to  be  a  simple  citizen  is  more 
^disgraceful  than  to  be  the  illegitimate  descendant  of  a 
murderer;  whether  to  labor  in  an  honorable  profession  be 
less  worthy  than  to  waste  the  property  of  others  in  vulgar 
debauchery;  whether  to  be  the  son  of  parents  of  no  title 
be  not  as  honorable  as  to  be  the  son  of  a  profligate  father 
and  a  mother  of  demoniac  temper,  and,  finally,  whether  a 
simple  university  career  be  less  indicative  of  virtue  than 
to  be  held  up  to  the  derision  and  contempt  of  his  fellow 
students,  as  a  scribbler  of  doggerel  and  a  bear-leader,  to  be 
hated  for  repulsiveness  of  manners  and  shunned  by  every 
man  who  would  not  be  deemed  a  profligate  without  wit  and 
trifling  without  elegance." 

A  cold  dead  look  of  mingled  pain  and  savagery  grew 
on  his  face  as  he  read.  Then  he  sprang  up  and  went  to 
the  door.  Behind  him  Dallas  had  seized  the  review  and 
was  reading  it  with  indignation.  The  publisher  was 
still  pacing  the  floor :  "What  an  unfortunate  advertise- 
ment !"  he  was  muttering. 

Gordon  stared  out  into  the  lamp-lighted  street.   The 


62  THE    CASTAWAY 

bitter  malignancy  which  had  spared  not  even  the  grave 
in  its  slander ;  numbed  and  maddened  him.  His  breath 
came  hard  and  a  mist  was  before  his  eyes.  Opposite 
the  shop  loomed  the  blackened  front  of  the  old  church 
of  St.  Dunstan's-in-the-West ;  as  he  stood,  the  two 
wooden  figures  of  wild  men  on  the  clock  which  projected 
over  the  street  struck  the  hour  with  their  clubs,  and  a 
late  newsboy  passed  crying  tiredly :  "News  and  Chron- 
icle! All  about  the  Frame-Breakers  shot  in  Notting- 
ham r 

The  volume  the  publisher  had  given  him  was  still  in 
Gordon's  hand.  He  turned  into  the  room  and  flung  it 
•n  the  desk. 

*^No/'  he  said  with  harsh  bluntness.  "ll^ot  a  line  shall 
be  altered!  If  every  syllable  were  a  rattlesnake  and 
every  letter  a  pestilence,  they  should  not  be  expunged  I 
Let  those  who  can  not  swallow,  chew  it.  I  will  have 
none  of  your  damned  cutting  and  slashing,  Murray.  I 
will  battle  my  way  against  them  all,  like  a  porcupine  !'* 

Then  he  wheeled  and  plunged  into  the  clack  and 
babble  of  Fleet  Street's  pedestrians. 

London  would  be  reading  this  effusion  when  his  book 
appeared  to-morrow — reading  it  and  talking  about  it. 
"The  curs!"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  walked  fiercely 
down  the  Strand. 

The  cry  of  the  newsboy  ahead  came  back  to  him  like 
a  dulled  refrain.  He  turned  into  Whitehall  at  Charing 
Cross,  and  looked  up  to  find  himself  opposite  Melbourne 
House.  He  remembered  suddenly  the  clear-eyed  girl  to 
whom  he  had  offered  his  Satire  and  whose  coin  was  still 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket ;  she  had  said  "Melbourne  House'* 


THE   CASTAWAY  63 

that;  day  to  the  coachman.  He  wondered  with  a  curious 
levity  whether  she  would  read  the  ScoUrge. 

Before  the  Houses  of  Parliament  stood  a  double  line 
of  carriages. 

"It's  the  debate  in  the  Lords  on  the  Frame-Breakers 
bill/'  he  heard  one  passer-by  inform  another,  as  he 
stared  frowning  at  the  high  Gothic  entrance.  That  was 
the  measure  against  which  Shelley's  pamphlet  had  been 
written. 

The  pain  was  dulling  and  the  old  unyielding  devil  of 
challenge  and  fight  was  struggling  uppermost.  "  ^The 
illegitimate  descendant  of  a  murderer !' " — Gordon  mut- 
tered— ^'  ^a  scribbler  of  doggerel  and  a  bear-leader !' " 

Then  suddenly  he  raised  his  head.  His  eyes  struck 
fire  like  gray  flint.  "I  am  a  peer,"  he  said  through  his 
teeth,  and  strode  through  the  door  which  he  had  never 
entered  in  his  life,  but  once. 

An  hour  later  there  was  a  sensation  in  John  Mur- 
ray's shop,  where  Dallas  still  sat.  It  was  furnished  by 
Sheridan,  who  came  in  taking  snuff  and  shaking  his 
gray  head  with  delight. 

"Heard  the  news?"  he  cried,  chuckling.  "George 
Gordon  just  made  a  great  speech — ^best  speech  by  a  lord 
since  the  Lord  knows  when !  I  was  in  the  gallery  with 
Lady  Melbourne  and  Lady  Caroline  Lamb.  He  opposed 
the  Frame-Breakers  bill.  They  say  it  means  the  death 
of  the  measure.  You  should  have  seen  the  big-wigs  flock 
to  offer  congratulations !  Why,  even  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor came  down  from  the  woolsack  to  shake  hands  with 
him  !*'  He  paused  out  of  breath,  with  a  final  "What  d'ye 
think  of  that?" 


64  THE   CASTAWAY 

'^ell,  well  V  ejaculated  the  publislier,  taking  off  Ms 
glasses  and  polishing  them  with  vigor.  He  looked  at 
Dallas. 

"What  an  Tinfortunate  advertisement!^'  quoth  that 
gentleman,  pulling  his  nose.    '^Eh  ?" 

John  Murray  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  desk  with 
a  force  that  made  the  ink-well  leap.  "By  the  foot  of 
Pharaoh!"  he  swore,  "we'll  take  advantage  of  it;  it 
will  discount  that  attack  in  the  Scourge.  The  papers 
have  their  copies  of  the  book  already.  I'll  send  them 
word.  We'll  not  wait  till  to-morrow.  We'll  issue  to- 
night !" 

He  rang  the  bell  sharply  and  gave  a  clerk  hurried 
orders  which  in  a  few  moments  made  the  oflBce  a  scene 
of  confusion. 

When  Lady  Melbourne  entered  Melbourne  House 
with  her  daughter-in-law  that  evening — about  the  time 
a  swarm  of  messengers  were  departing  from  the  Fleet 
Street  shop  carrying  packages  of  books  addressed  to  the 
greatest  houses  of  London — she  found  her  stately  niece, 
Annabel  Milbanke,  reading  in  the  drawing-room. 

Lady  Caroline's  eyes  were  very  bright  as  she  threw  off 
her  wraps.  She  went  to  the  piano  and  played  softly — 
long  dissolving  arpeggios  that  melted  into  a  rich  minor 
chord.  Presently  she  began  to  sing  the  same  Greek  air 
that  she  had  sung  once  before  with  a  pathos  that  had 
surprised  and  stirred  even  the  colder,  calculate  Annabel. 

"Caro,  what  is  that  ?"  asked  Lady  Melbourne,  unclasp- 
ing her  sables  before  the  fireplace.  The  singer  did  not 
hear  her. 

''It's  a  song  Mr.  Hobhouse  sent  her  when  he  was 
traveling  in  the  East,"  Annabel  volunteered. 


THE    CASTAWAY  65 

Lady  Melbourne's  thoughts  were  not  wholly  on  the 
song.  She  had  seen  the  book  her  niece  Kad  been  reading 
— ^it  was  George  Gordon's  long  famous  Satire.  She 
picked  it  up,  noting  the  name  on  the  title-page  with  ap- 
proval. She  had  been  pondering  since  she  left  the  ladies' 
gallery  of  the  House  of  Lords,  and  her  thoughts  had 
concerned  themselves  intimately  with  its  author,  the 
young  peer  whose  maiden  speech  had  challenged  such 
surprise  and  admiration.  His  name  went  perpetually 
accompanied  by  stories  of  eccentricities  and  wild  life  at 
college,  of  tamed  bears  and  hidden  orgies  at  Newstead 
with  Paphian  dancing  girls,  of  a  secret  establishment 
at  Brighton,  of  adventures  and  liaisons  the  most  reck- 
less in  cities  of  the  Orient.  Yet  he  had  stanch  support- 
ers, too. 

^'Annabel,"  she  said  presently,  and  with  singular  em- 
phasis, "George  Gordon  is  in  town.  He  spoke  in  Parlia- 
ment this  evening.  I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  dinner 
here  to-morrow — ^to  meet  you." 

The  refrain  Lady  Caroline  was  singing  broke  queerly 
in  the  middle,  and  her  fingers  stumbled  on  the  keys. 
The  others  did  not  see  the  expression  that  slipped 
swiftly  across  her  face,  the  rising  flush,  the  indrawn, 
bitten  under  lip,  nor  did  they  catch  the  undertone  in 
her  laugh  as  she  ran  up  the  stair. 

In  her  own  room  she  unlocked  a  metal  frame  that 
stood  on  her  dressing  table.  It  held  a  pencil  portrait, 
begged  long  before  from  Hobhouse.  A  vivid,  conscious 
flush  was  in  her  cheeks  as  she  looked  at  it. 

*'For  a  woman  of  fire  and  dreams!"  she  murmured. 
''Not  for  a  thing  of  snow !    Never — ^never !" 


CHAPTER  IX 

GORDON  WAKES  AND  FINDS  HIMSELF  FAMOUS 

The  sharp  jostle  of  the  pavement;  the  rattle  of  the 
crossings;  the  "this  way,  m'lord!"  of  dodging  link- 
boys  and  the  hoarse  warning  of  the  parochial  watch  to 
reckless  drivers;  street  lamps  flaring  redly  in  the  raw 
and  heavy  night;  the  steaming  tap-rooms  along  the 
Thames ;  the  cut-throat  darkness  and  the  dank  smell  of 
the  slow  turgid  current  under  London  bridge.  Still 
Gordon  walked  while  the  hours  dragged  till  the  traffic 
ebbed  to  midnight's  lull — on  and  on,  without  purpose  or 
direction.  It  was  dawn  before  he  entered  his  lodgings, 
fagged  and  unstrung,  with  blood  pumping  and  quiver- 
ing in  his  veins  like  quicksilver. 

He  let  himself  in  with  his  own  key.  The  door  of  the 
ante-chamber  which  his  valet  occupied  was  ajar. 
Fletcher  had  been  waiting  for  his  master;  he  was 
dressed  and  seated  in  a  chair,  but  his  good-humored, 
oleaginous  face  was  smoothed  in  slumber. 

Gordon  went  into  his  sitting-room,  poured  out  a  half 
goblet  of  cognac  and  drank  it  to  the  last  drop,  feeling 
gratefully  its  dull  glow  and  grudging  release  from 
nervous  tension. 

His  memory  of  his  speech  was  a  sort  of  rough-drawn 
composite  impression  whose  salient  points  were  color 

(66) 


THE   CASTAWAY  67 

and  movement:  the  wide  groined  roof,  the  peaked  and 
gilded  throne,  the  crimson  woolsack,  the  long,  red 
morocco  sofas  set  thickly,  the  rustle  in  the  packed  gal- 
leries, and  peers  leaning  in  their  seats  to  speak  in  low 
tones  with  their  neighbors. 

The  majority  there  had  not  known  him,  but  his  pale- 
ness, his  beauty,  his  curling  hair,  and  most  of  all  his 
lameness,  told  his  name  to  the  few.  The  few  whispered 
it  to  the  many,  they  in  turn  gazed  and  whispered  too, 
and  almost  before  he  had  uttered  a  word,  the  entire 
assemblage  knew  that  the  speaker  was  the  notorious 
writer  of  the  famous  Satire  whose  winged  Apollonian 
shafts  had  stung  the  whole  poetic  cult  of  England — ^the 
twenty-four-year-old  lord  whose  name  was  coupled  in 
the  newspapers  with  unlovely  tales  of  bacchanals  in 
Madrid,  duellos  in  Malta  and  Gibraltar,  and  harem  in- 
trigues in  Constantinople;  tales  half -believed  even  by 
those  who  best  knew  what  enemies  his  vitriolic  pen  had 
made  and  their  opportunities  for  slander. 

Gordon  had  acted  in  a  mental  world  created  by  ex- 
citement. His  pride  had  spurred  him,  in  a  moment  of 
humiliation,  to  thrust  himself  into  the  place  he  of  right 
should  occupy.  Mere  accident  had  chosen  the  debate; 
the  casual  circumstance  of  a  visit  to  the  Fleet  Prison 
had  determined  his  position  in  it.  Given  these,  his  mind 
had  responded  clearly,  spontaneously,  with  a  grasp  and 
brilliancy  of  which  he  himself  had  been  scarcely  con- 
scious. He  remembered,  with  a  curious  impersonal  won- 
der as  he  walked,  the  sharp,  straining,  mental  effort  be- 
fore that  battery  of  glances  coldly  formal  at  first,  then 
surprised  into  approval  and  at  length  warmed  to  enthu- 
siastic applause;  the  momentary  hush  as  he  sat  down; 


68  THE   CASTAWAY 

the  buzz  of  undammed  talk  crisped  by  the  tap  of  the 
gavel;  the  press  of  congratulations  which  followed  him 
to  the  outer  air. 

!N'ow,  as  he  stood  in  his  room  in  the  gray  light  of  the 
early  morning,  a  feeling  of  distaste  came  over  him. 
Why  had  he  spoken  ?  Had  it  been  from  any  sympathy 
for  the  cause  he  championed  ?  Was  it  not  rather  in  a 
mere  spirit  of  hurt  pride  and  resentment — ^the  same 
resentment  that  had  made  him  refuse  to  eliminate  the 
bitter  stanzas  from  his  book  ?  A  flush  rose  to  his  brow. 
How  unworthy  had  been  his  motive  beside  that  of  the 
stripling  who  had  written  against  that  same  bill ! 

A  sense  of  shame  rushed  through  him.  In  the  late 
weeks  at  Newstead  he  had  felt  how  small  were  such  im- 
pulses. He  had  told  himself  that  he  would  sing  for  his 
song's  own  sake  and  keep  it  free  from  the  petty  and 
the  retaliative;  that  he  would  live  in  the  azure  his  own 
mind  created  and  let  the  world's  praise  and  abuse  alike 
go  by.    Had  he  kept  this  determination  ? 

He  poured  out  a  second  tumbler  of  the  liquor  and 
drank  it. 

Neither  claret  nor  champagne  ever  affected  him,  but 
the  double  draft  of  brandy  brought  an  immediate 
intoxication  that  grew  almost  instantly  to  a  gray  giddi- 
ness. He  pushed  a  couch  to  the  wall,  shoved  a  screen 
between  it  and  the  dawn-lit  windows,  threw  himself 
down  without  undressing  and  fell  into  a  moveless  sleep 
that  lasted  many  hours.  The  reaction,  his  physical 
weariness  and  both  topped  by  the  cognac,  made  his  slum- 
ber log-like,  a  dull,  dead  blank  of  nothingness,  unbroken 
by  any  sound. 

J'letcher  came  in  yawning,  looked  into  his  master's 


THE    CASTAWAY  69 

eleeping-room  and  went  out  shaking  his  head.  Later  he 
brought  a  pile  of  letters,  and  relaid  the  fire.  Noon  came 
— one,  two  o^clock — and  meanwhile  there  were  many 
knocks  npon  the  door,  from  each  of  which  the  valet  re- 
turned with  larger  eyes  to  add  another  personal  card  or 
note  to  the  increasing  pile  on  the  table. 

As  the  clock  struck  three,  he  opened  the  door  upon 
two  of  the  best-liked  of  his  master^s  old-time  town  asso- 
ciates. They  were  Tom  Moore,  with  a  young  ruddy  face 
of  Irish  humor,  and  Sheridan,  clad  to  spruoery  as  if 
Apollo  had  sent  him  a  birthday  suit,  and  smiling  like  a 
rakish  gray-haired  cherub. 

"Fletcher,  where's  your  master  T' 

"His  lordship  is  out,  Mr.  Sheridan.'' 

"The  devil  he  is!  Hang  it,  we'll  wait  then,  Tom. 
Go  and  look  for  him,  Fletcher." 

"I  shouldn't  know  where  to  look,  sir.  My  lord  didn't 
come  in  at  all  last  night." 

Sheridan  whistled.  "That's  queer.  Well,  we'll  wait 
a  while," — and  they  entered.  As  he  saw  the  pile  of 
newly  arrived  stationery,  the  older  man  threw  his  stick 
into  the  corner  and  smote  Moore  on  the  shoulder  with  a 
chuckle. 

"I  told  them  so!"  he  vociferated,  wagging  his  head. 
*^I  told  them  so  when  his  Satire  first  came  out.  Curse 
catch  me,  d'ye  ever  know  of  such  a  triumph?  That 
speech  was  the  spark  to  the  powder.  It  was  cute  of 
Murray  to  issue  last  night.  Every  newspaper  in  town 
clapping  its  hands  and  bawling  bigger  adjectives.  Gen- 
ius and  youth — ah,  what  a  combination  it  is !" 

He  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  descended  upon  the 
heap  of  cards  and  billets,  picking  up  each  in  turn 


n  THE   CASTAWAY 

between  thumb  and  forefinger  and  looking  at  it  withi 
a  squint.  "'Lord  Carlisle/ '^  he  read — "his  guardian, 
eh?  Wouldn't  introduce  him  in  the  Lords  two  years 
ago.  Tolonel  Greville' — ^wanted  to  fight  George  once 
for  a  line  in  his  Satire  about  high-play  in  the  Argyle 
Club!  He's  cooing  gently  now!  Blue*tinted  note — 
smells  of  violets.  Humph !  More  notes — seven  of  'em ! 
Fletcher,  you  old  humbug,  d'ye  know  your  master  at  this 
moment  is  the  greatest  man  in  London  ?'' 

"Yes,  Mr.  Sheridan." 

"Oh,  you  do  ?  Knew  it  all  along,  I  suppose.  Doesn't 
surprise  you  one  bit,  eh  ?" 

"No,  Mr.  Sheridan." 

"Curse  catch  me! — " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Sheridan." 

Moore  laughed,  and  the  older  man,  cackling  at  the 
valet's  matter-of-fact  expression,  continued  his  task: 
"Card  from  the  Bishop  of  London — Lord  deliver  us! 
Another  letter — where  have  I  seen  that  silver  crest? 
Why,  the  Melbourne  arms,  to  be  sure!  By  the  hand- 
writing, it's  from  the  countess  herself.  'Lord  Heath- 
cote' — 'Lord  Holland.'  It's  electric !  It's  a  contagion ! 
All  London  is  mad  to-day,  mad  over  George  Gordon  !** 

"I  passed  Murray's  shop  an  hour  ago,"  declared 
Moore.  "There  was  a  string  of  carriages  at  the  door 
like  the  entrance  of  Palace  Yard.  Murray  told  me  he 
will  have  booked  orders  for  fourteen  thousand  copies 
before  night-fall." 

As  the  other  threw  down  the  mass  of  stationery,  he 
spied  the  bottle  which  Gordon  had  half  emptied. 

"Here's  some  cognac,"  he  said.  "Fletcher,  some 
glasses.    That's  right.    It's  early  in  the  day  for  brandy. 


THE   CASTAWAY  71 

but  n^etter  never  than  late/  as  Hobhouse  would  say. 
We'll  toast  Gordon's  success/'  He  poured  for  both  and 
the  rims  clicked. 

"To  Thilde  Harold' !"  cried  Moore. 

With  the  glasses  at  their  lips,  a  voice  broke  forth  be- 
hind them  declaiming  ex  tempore: 

"My  boat  is  on  the  shore. 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 
Here's  a  double  health  to  thee!" 

Moore  dragged  away  the  screen.  Gordon  was  stand- 
ing by  the  couch ;  his  tumbled  hair  and  disordered  dress 
showed  he  had  just  awakened.  His  face  was  flushed, 
his  eyes  sparkling. 

'  "You  villain!"  expostulated  Moore;  "it's  you  we're 
toasting." 

" — ^And  with  water  or  with  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  peace  with  thine  and  mine. 
And — a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore!" 

"Gordon,  you  eavesdropper,  have  you  read  the  pa- 
pers?" Sheridan  shouted. 

"Not  a  line !" 

"Curse  catch  me,  you've  heard  us  talking  then! 
George,  George,  you've  waked  to  find  yourself  famous !" 

Gordon  hardly  felt  their  hand-clasps  or  heard  their 
congratulatory  small-talk.  He  almost  ran  to  the  win- 
dow and  flung  it  open,  drawing  the  cool  air  into  his 
lungs  with  a  great  respiration.  His  sleep  had  been 
crumpled  and  scattered  by  the  fall  of  a  walking-stick. 


n  THE    CASTAWAY 

as  the  crackling  of  thin  ice  will  spill  and  dissipate  tf 
crowd  of  skaters.  He  had  caught  snatches  of  conver- 
sation indistinctly  as  he  shook  off  the  leaden  stnpor  of 
the  intoxicant.  "Every  newspaper  in  town  clapping 
its  hands!"  "All  London  mad  over  George  Gordon!" 
His  mind  had  conned  the  sentences  dully  at  first,  then 
with  a  gasping  dart  of  meaning.  His  speech?  No,  it 
could  not  be  that.  Moore  had  spoken  the  name  of  his 
hook,  and  he  had  known — realized  in  a  flash,  while 
he  lay  quivering.  Then  it  was  that  he  had  leaped  to 
his  feet.  Then  he  had  voiced  that  impromptu  toast, 
declaimed  while  he  fought  hard  to  repress  his  exulta- 
tion, with  every  nerve  thrilling  a  separate,  savage  tri- 
umph of  its  own. 

He  looked  down.  It  was  as  fine  a  day  as  that  on  which' 
Paradise  was  made,  and  the  streets  were  alive.  Several 
pedestrians  stopped  to  stare  up  at  him  curiously.  A  car- 
riage was  passing,  and  he  saw  the  gentleman  it  held 
speak  to  the  lady  by  his  side  and  point  toward  the  build- 
ing. Fame !  To  clamp  shut  the  mouths  of  the  scoun- 
drels who  maligned  him  and  his !  To  feel  the  sting  of 
the  past  covered  with  the  soothing  poultice  of  real  repu- 
tation! To  fling  back  the  sneers  of  his  enemies  into 
their  teeth.  To  be  no  longer  singular,  isolated,  excom- 
municate— ^to  have  the  world's  smiles  and  its  praise ! 

Yesterday  seemed  a  dream.  It  was  fading  into  an 
indistinguishable  background,  with  the  face  of  the 
bright-eyed  youth  in  the  Eleet  Prison— and  the  dull 
shame  he  had  felt  at  dawn. 

He  turned.  "Pardon  me  if  I  play  the  host  poorly  to- 
day," he  said ;  "I  am  ridiculously,  fine-ladically  nervous. 
I  fear  I  must  have  retired  drunk — a  good  old  gentle- 


THE    CASTAWAY  73 

manly  vice — and  am  now  at  the  freezing  point  of  re- 
turning soberness." 

Sheridan  pushed  him  into  his  bedroom. 

'^Make  your  toilet,  my  boy/'  he  told  him  good-na- 
turedly. ^^We  will  wait/' — and  Gordon  resigned  himself 
to  the  ministrations  of  Fletcher  and  the  comfort  of 
hot  water  and  fine  linen. 

When  he  came  back  to  find  his  visitors  smoking,  he 
had  thrust  all  outward  agitation  under  the  surface.  He 
was  dressed  in  elegance,  and  a  carnation  was  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  white  great-coat.  There  was  less  of 
melancholy  curve  to  the  finely-wrought  lips,  more  of 
slumbrous  fire  in  the  gray-blue  eyes. 

"There's  a  soberer  for  you."  Moore  indicated  the 
pile  of  sealed  missives  and  pasteboards.  "You'll  cer- 
tainly need  a  secretary." 

Gordon's  eye  caught  the  Melbourne  crest.  He  picked 
out  the  note  from  the  rest  hastily,  with  a  vision  flit- 
ting through  his  mind  of  a  clear-eyed  statuesque  girl. 
While  he  was  reading  there  was  a  double  knock  at  the 
door  which  Fletcher  answered. 

A  splendid  figure  stood  on  the  threshold,  arrayed  as 
Solomon  was  not  in  all  his  glory,  and  the  figure  pushed 
his  way  in,  with  gorgeous  disregard  of  the  valet. 

"Is  his  lordship  in  yet?"  he  simpered.  "Eh?  Stap 
my  vitals,  say  it's  Captain  Brummell — George  Brum- 
mell — ^and  be  quick  about  it.  Ah !"  he  continued,  rais- 
ing his  glass  to  his  eye,  as  he  distinguished  the  group, 
"there  he  is  now,  and  old  Sherry,  too.  I  am  your  lord- 
ship's most  obedient !  I've  been  here  twice  this  after- 
noon. You  must  come  to  Watier's  Club  with  me,  sir — 
I'll  be  sworn,  I  must  be  the  one  to  introduce  you !    You 


74  THE   castaway; 

will  all  favor  us,  gentlemen,  of  course,  as  my  guests. 
My  chariot  is  at  the  door  V 

^'I  thank  you.  Captain,'^  Gordon  answered,  as  he 
folded  the  note  of  invitation  he  had  been  reading  and  ^ 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  '^ut  I  cannot  give  myself  the 
pleasure  this  afternoon.  Mr.  Sheridan  and  Mr.  Moore 
will  doubtless  be  charmed.  I  am  promised  within  the 
hour  to  dinner — at  Lady  Melbourne's." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  PRICE  OF  THE  BAUBLE 

Beau  Brummell,  from  his  seat  in  the  bow-window, 
bowed  with  empressement  as  Gordon  alighted  from  his 
carriage  and  ascended  the  steps  of  White's  Club  from 
an  early  dinner  at  Holland  House. 

"'Fore  gad/'  admired  the  dandy,  "what  a  coat!  It 
becomes  him  as  if  he'd  been  hatched  in  it." 

Lord  Petersham  at  his  elbow  gazed  with  seconding 
approval.  The  somber  elegance  of  the  black  velvet 
dress-coat,  which  Gordon  wore  close-buttoned,  and  the 
white  rolling  collar  left  open  so  as  to  expose  the  throat, 
served  to  heighten  the  pallor  of  his  skin  and  set  in 
high  relief  the  handsome,  patrician  face  above  it. 

"Still  on  his  pedestal,"  observed  Petersham,  'be- 
fore long  his  vertex  sublimis  will  displace  enough  stars  to 
overthrow  the  Newtonian  system!  I  hear  Caro  Lamb 
is  not  tired  doing  homage.  His  affair  with  Lady  Ox- 
ford seems  to  be  tapering." 

^^omen!"  ejaculated  Brummell.  "He's  a  martyr 
to  them.  Stap  my  vitals,  the  beauties  run  after  him 
because  he  won't  make  up  to  them.  Treat  women  like 
fools,  and  they'll  all  worship  you !" 

To  the  pinnacle  this  implied,  Gordon  had  risen  at 
(75) 


76  THE    CASTAWAY 

a  leap.  He  was  the  idol  of  fashionable  London,  the 
chief  topic  of  frivolous  boudoir  gossip  and  intellectual 
table-talk.  His  person,  his  travels  spangled  with  ro- 
mantic tales,  his  gloom,  his  pride,  his  beauty,  and  the 
dazzle  of  his  prodigious  success,  combined  to  bring  him 
an  unheard-of  homage.  His  newest  book  was  on  every 
drawing-room  table  in  the  kingdom.  He  was  made  much 
of  by  Lady  Jersey.  Hostesses  quarrelled  over  entertain- 
ing him,  and  ladies  of  every  title  below  the  blood- 
royal  asked  to  be  placed  next  him  at  dinner.  The 
regent  himself  had  asked  him  to  Carlton  House. 

Each  of  his  publications  since  that  February  day 
when  he  woke  to  fame  and  when  the  chariot  of  the  in- 
comparable Captain  Brummell  had  set  him  down  at  Mel- 
bourne House,  had  had  a  like  history.  Each  had  won 
the  same  rapt  praise,  the  same  wondering  homage  to 
talent.  If  they  missed  the  burning  fervor  of  those 
earlier  impassioned  lines  on  Grecian  liberty,  if  they 
held,  each  more  clearly,  an  under-note  of  agnosticism, 
it  was  overlooked  in  delight  at  their  freedom,  their 
metrical  sweep  and  seethe  of  feeling,  the  melancholy 
sea-surge  and  fret  of  their  moods.  His  ancient  de- 
tractors, whom  his  success  had  left  breathless,  con- 
strained to  innuendo,  had  added  to  his  personality  the 
tang  of  the  audacious,  of  bizarre  license,  of  fantastic 
eccentricity,  that  beckoned  even  while  it  repelled. 

One  would  have  thought  Gordon  himself  indifferent 
to  praise  as  to  censure.  The  still  dissatisfaction  that 
came  to  him  in  the  night  hours  in  his  tumbled  study, 
when  he  remembered  the  strength  and  purpose  that 
had  budded  in  his  soul  in  those'  early  weeks  at  New- 
stead,  he  alone  knew.    The  convention  that  had  carped 


THE    CASTAWAY  77 

at  him  before  his  fame  he  trod  under  foot.  He  fre- 
quented Manton's  shooting-gallery,  practised  the  broad 
sword  at  Angelo's,  sparred  with  "Gentleman  Jackson," 
the  champion  pugilist,  in  his  rooms  in  Bond  Street, 
and  clareted  and  champagned  at  the  Cocoa-Tree  with 
Sheridan  and  Moore  till  five  in  the  matin.  Other  men 
might  conceal  their  harshest  peccadilloes;  Gordon  con- 
cealed nothing.  What  he  did  he  did  frankly,  with  dis- 
dain for  appearances.  Hypocrisy  was  to  him  the  souFs 
gangrene.  He  preferred  to  have  the  world  think  him 
worse  than  to  think  him  better  than  he  was. 

His  enemies  in  time  had  plucked  up  courage,  re- 
Tamped  old  stories  and  invented  new;  these  seemed  to 
give  him  little  concern.  He  not  only  kept  silence  but 
declined  to  allow  his  friends,  such  as  Sheridan  and 
Hobhouse,  to  champion  him.  When  the  Chronicle 
barbed  a  sting  with  a  reference  to  the  enormous  sums 
he  was  pocketing  from  his  copyholds,  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  John  Murray,  his  publisher,  knew  that  the 
earnings  of  "The  Giaour"  had  been  given  to  a  needy  au- 
thor; that  "Zuleika"  had  relieved  a  family  from  the 
slavery  of  debt  and  sent  them,  hopeful  colonists,  to  Aus- 
tralia. 

Gordon  passed  into  the  club,  bowing  to  the  group 
in  the  bow- window  with  conventional  courtesy,  and 
entered  the  reading-room.  It  was  September,  but  the 
night  had  turned  cool,  and  he  dropped  into  a  chair  be- 
fore the  hearth. 

"Why  does  Lady  Holland  always  have  that  damned 
screen  between  the  whole  room  and  the  fire  ?"  he  grum- 
bled half -humorously.  "I  who  bear  cold  no  better  than 
an  antelope,  and  never  yet  found  a  sun  quite  done  toi 


n  THE   CASTAWAIl 

my  taste,  was  absolutely  petrified,  and  couldn't  even 
shiver.  All  the  rest,  too,  looked  as  if  they  were  just 
unpacked,  like  salmon  from  an  ice-basket !" 

A  lackey  in  the  club's  regalia  brought  a  tray  of  let- 
ters and  set  it  beside  him.  Gordon  lit  a  cigar  before  he 
examined  them.  They  were  the  usual  collection:  a 
sprinkling  of  effusions  from  romantic  incognitas;  a 
graver  tribute  from  Walter  Scott;  a  pressing  request 
for  that  evening  from  Lady  Jersey. 

"To  meet  Madame  de  Stael!"  he  mused.  "I  once 
travelled  three  thousand  miles  to  get  among  silent  peo- 
ple; and  this  lady  writes  octavos  and  talks  folios.  I 
have  read  her  essay  against  suicide ;  if  I  heard  her  recite 
it,  I  might  swallow  poison." 

The  final  note  he  lifted  was  written  on  blue-bordered 
paper,  its  corners  embossed  with  tiny  cockle-shells,  and 
he  opened  it  with  a  nettled  frown. 

"Poor  Caro !"  he  muttered.  "Why  will  you  persist  in 
imprudent  things?  Some  day  your  epistle  will  fall 
into  the  lion's  jaws,  and  then  I  must  hold  out  my  iron. 
I  am  out  of  practice,  but  I  won't  go  to  Manton's  now. 
Besides,"  he  added  with  a  shrug,  "I  wouldn't  return  his 
shot.  I  used  to  be  a  famous  wafer-splitter,  but  since 
I  began  to  feel  I  had  a  bad  cause  to  support,  I  have 
left  off  the  exercise." 

His  face  took  on  a  deeper  perplexity  as  he  read  the 
eccentric,  curling  hand: 

".  .  .  Gordon,  do  you  remember  that  first  dinner  at 
Melbourne  House — the  day  after  your  speech  in  the  Lords? 
You  gave  me  a  carnation  from  your  buttonhole.  You 
said,  'I  am  told  your  ladyship  likes  all  that  is  new  and 
rare — for  the  moment!'    Ah,   that  meeting  was  not  only 


THE   CASTAWAYi  79 

for  the  moment  with  me,  you  know  that!  It  has  lasted 
eyer  since.  I  have  never  heard  your- name  announced 
that  it  did  not  thrill  every  pulse  of  my  body.  I  have  never 
heard  a  venomous  word  against  you  that  did  not  sting  me, 
too.'* 

Gordon  held  the  letter  in  a  candle-flame,  and  dropped 
it  on  the  salver.  As  it  crackled  to  a  mass  of  glowing 
tinder,  a  step  fell  behind  him.  He  looked  up  to  see 
Moore. 

"Tom,^'  he  said,  his  brow  clearing,  "I  am  in  one  of 
my  most  vaporish  moments." 

Moore  seated  himself  on  a  chair-arm  and  poked  the 
blackening  twist  of  paper  with  his  walking-stick.  He 
smiled  an  indulgent  smile  of  prime  and  experience. 

"From  which  I  conclude — ''  he  answered  sagely, 
^^that  you  are  bound  to  Drury  Lane  greenroom  instead 
of  to  Lady  Jersey's  this  evening.'* 

Gordon's  lips  caught  the  edge  of  the  other's  smile. 

^TTou  are  right.  I'm  going  to  let  Jane  Clermont 
brighten  my  mood.  She  is  always  interesting — ^more  so 
off  the  stage  than  on.  They  are  only  hothouse  roses 
that  will  bloom  at  Lady  Jersey's.  Jane  is  a  wild  tiger- 
lily.  She  has  all  the  natural  wit  of  the  de  Stael — a 
pity  it  must  be  wasted  on  the  pit  loungers!  Heaven 
only  knows  why  I  ever  go  to  their  ladyships'  infernal 
functions  at  all,  for  I  hate  bustle  as  I  hate  a  bishop. 
Here  I  am,  eternally  stalking  to  parties  where  I  shan't 
talk,  I  can't  flatter,  and  I  won't  listen — except  to  a 
pretty  woman.  If  one  wants  to  break  a  commandment 
and  covet  his  neighbor's  wife,  it's  all  very  well.  But  to 
go  out  amongst  the  mere  herd,  without  a  motive,  a 


Sa  THE   CASTAWAY 

pleasure  or  a  pursuit,  of  no  more  use  tHan  a  sick  butter- 
fly— it  begins  to  pall  upon  my  soul !" 

Moore's  stick  "was  still  meditatively  poking  the 
charred  paper.  The  ashes  fell  apart,  and  a  tiny  un- 
burnt  blue  corner  showed — it  bore  the  familiar  device 
of  a  cockle-shell.  His  lips  puckered  in  a  thoughtful 
whistle.    Aloud  he  said : 

''Why  not  adopt  the  conventional  remedy  ?'' 

"I'm  too  lazy  to  shoot  myself  V 

''There's  a  more  comfortable  medicine  than  that.'' 

Gordon's  smile  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Wedlock,  eH? 
Eeading  the  country  newspapers  and  kissing  one's  wife's 
maid!  To  experience  the  superlative  felicity  of  those 
foxes  who  have  cut  their  tails  and  would  persuade 
the  rest  to  part  with  their  brushes  to  keep  them 
in  countenance!  All  my  coupled  contemporaries — 
save  you,  Tom — are  bald  and  discontented.  Words- 
worth and  Southey  have  both  lost  their  hair  and 
good  humor.  But  after  all,"  he  said,  rising,  "anything 
is  better  than  these  hypochondriac  whimsies.  In  the 
name  of  St.  Hubert,  patron  of  antlers  and  hunters,  let 
me  be  married  out  of  hand.  I  don't  care  to  whom,  so 
it  amuses  anybody  else  and  doesn't  interfere  with  me 
in  the  daytime !  By  the  way,  can't  you  come  down  to 
Newstead  for  the  shooting-season?  Sheridan  and  Hob- 
house  are  to  be  there,  and  my  cellar  is  full  though  my 
head  is  empty.  What  do  you  say  ?  You  can  plague  us 
with  songs.  Sherry  can  write  a  new  comedy,  and  I  mean 
to  let  my  beard  grow,  and  hate  you  all." 

His  companion  accepted  with  alacrity.  "When  shall 
we  start?"  he  inquired,  walking  with  the  other  to  his 
carriage. 


THE   CASTAWAY  81 

^^Ai  noon,  to-morrow/'  Gordon  replied.  ^'Till  then, 
good  night.  I  commend  you  to  the  cape  of  the  gods — 
Hindoo,  Scandinavian  and  Hellenic."  • 

As  the  wheels  clattered  on,  Gordon's  mind  was  run- 
ning in  channels  of  discontent. 

"I  am  ennuyej'  he  thought,  ^l^eyond  my  usual  tense 
of  that  yawning  verb  I  am  always  conjugating.  At  six- 
and-twenty  one  should  be  something — and  what  am  I? 
ISTothing  but  six-and-twenty,  and  the  odd  months.  Six- 
and-twenty  years,  as  they  call  them — ^why,  I  might  have 
been  a  pasha  by  this  time  V 

The  coach  turned  a  corner,  and  he  saw,  a  little  way 
off,  the  lighted  front  of  Drury  Lane  Theater.  In  the 
shadow  of  its  stage-door  stood  a  couple  his  sight  did  not 
distinguish,  but  the  keen  black  eyes  of  one  of  them — ^a 
vivid,  Creole-looking  girl — ^had  noted  with  a  quick  in- 
stinctive movement  the  approach  of  the  well-known 
carriage,  now  tangled  in  the  moving  stream. 

The  gaze  of  the  man  beside  her — defiant,  furtive, 
theatric  and  mustachioed,  with  hair  falling  thickly  and 
shortly  like  a  Moor's — followed  her  look. 

"He  was  in  the  greenroom  last  night,  too !"  he  said, 
with  angry  jealousy.    "I  saw  him  coming  away." 

"Suppose  you  did?"  flung  the  girl  with  irritation. 
*'Who  are  you,  that  I  must  answer  for  whom  I  see  or 
know — yes,  and  for  anything  else?  He  was  here,  and 
so  was  Mr.  Sheridan  and  Captain  Brummell.  I  should 
like  to  know  what  you  have  to  say  about  it !" 

The  other's  cheek  had  flushed  darkly. 

'TTou  used  to  have  more  time  for  me,  Jane,"  he  an- 
swered sullenly,  before  you  took  up  with  the  theater — 


80  THE   CASTAWAYi 

when  you  lived  over  the  old  book-shop  and  hadn't  a 
swarm  of  idling  dandies  about  you/' 

"I  suppose  his  lordship  there  is  an  ^idling  dand/!'^ 
she  retorted  with  fine  sarcasm.  "A  dandy,  and  the 
most  famous  man  in  England!  An  idler,  who  gets  a 
guinea  a  line  for  all  he  writes.  What  do  you  spend,  pray, 
that  your  father  in  Wales  didn't  leave  you  ?  Tell  me," 
she  said  curiously,  her  tone  changing;  "you  were  in  the 
East  when  you  were  in  the  navy.  Are  all  the  stories 
they  tell  of  George  Gordon  in  Greece  true?  They  say 
he  himself  is  Conrad,  the  hero  of  his  'Corsair/  Was  he 
80  dreadfully  wicked?" 

He  turned  away  his  head,  gnawing  his  lip.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  returned  doggedly,  ''and  I  care  less.  I  know 
he's  only  amusing  himself  with  you,  Jane,  and  you 
know  it,  too—" 

"And  it's  no  amusement  to  you  ?"  she  prompted,  with' 
innate  coquetry,  dropping  back  into  her  careless  tone. 
"If  it  isn't,  don't  come  then.  I  shall  try  to  get  along, 
never  fear.  Why  shouldn't  I  know  fine  people?"  she 
went  on,  a  degree  less  hardly.  "I'm  tired  of  this  foggy, 
bread-and-butter  life.  It  was  bad  enough  at  God- 
win's stuffy  house  with  poverty  and  a  stepfather.  I 
don't  wonder  Mary  has  run  away  to  marry  her  Shelley  I 
He'll  be  a  baronet  some  day,  and  she  can  see  life.  I 
don't  intend  to  be  tied  to  London  always,  either — even 
with  the  playing !  I  want  to  know  things  and  see  some- 
thing of  the  world.  Why  do  you  stay  here?  Why; 
don't  you  go  to  sea  again  ?    I'm  sure  Fd  like  to." 

"You  know  why  I  don't,"  he  said,  "well  enough.  I 
deserted  the  service  once,  besides.  But  I'd  like  to  see 
the  world — ^with  you,  Jane  1" 


THE   CASTAWAY  83 

He  did  not  see  the  line  that  curved  her  lips,  half- 
scornful,  half-pitying,  for  his  look  had  fastened  on  a 
figure  in  a  ministerial  cloak,  who  was  passing  on  th-e 
pavement.  The  figure  was  Dr.  James  Cassidy,  taking 
his  evening  walk  with  the  under-curate  of  St.  Dun- 
stan's-in-the-West — an  especially  enjoyable  hour  with 
him. 

Now,  as  Cassidy's  insect  eyes  lifted,  they  fell  on  the 
oriental  face  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway  with  a  sud- 
den interrogative  start.  He  took  a  step  toward  it,  hesi- 
tatingly, but  the  curate  was  in  the  midst  of  a  quotation 
from  Eusebius,  and  the  pause  was  but  momentary.  The 
girFs  Moorish-looking  companion  had  not  moved,  but 
his  hands  had  clenched  and  his  face  had  an  ugly  expres- 
sion as  Cassidy  passed  on. 

"Only  a  resemblance,''  remarked  the  latter,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded. "The  man  in  the  doorway  there  reminded  me 
of  an  ensign  who  deserted  the  Pylades  once  when  we 
were  lying  at  Bombay."  His  hand  touched  a  broad  white 
scar  on  his  cheek.  "I  trust  he  may  yet  be  apprehended 
— for  the  good  of  the  service,"  he.  added  softly. 

Gordon's  eyes,  as  the  carriage  picked  its  way,  had 
been  on  the  front  of  the  theater,  but  they  were  preoc- 
cupied. He  did  not  see  the  look  of  dislike  from  the  mus- 
tachioed face  in  the  shadow,  nor  the  girl  as  she  vanished 
through  the  stage-door.  Yet,  as  it  happened,  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  theater  had  brought  a  thought  of  her. 

"Fond,  flippant,  wild,  elusive,  alluring— the  devil!'* 
he  mused.  "That's  Jane  Clermont — she  would  furnish 
out  a  new  chapter  for  Solomon's  Song.  The  stage  is 
her  atmosphere :  she  came  to  it  as  naturally  as  a  hum- 
ming-bird to  a  garden  of  geraniums.    Yet  she  will  never 


84  THE    CASTAWAY 

make  a  Siddons;  she  lacks  purpose  and  she  is — 
mechante.  She  appeals  to  the  elemental,  raw  sense  of 
the  untamed  and  picturesque  men  own  in  common  with 
savages.  Nature  made  such  women  to  cure  man's  ennui : 
they  fit  his  mood.  Jane  Clermont  was  not  bom  for 
fine  ladies'  fripperies.  What  is  it  she  lacks  ?  Balance  ? 
— or  is  it  the  moral  sense  ?  After  all,  I'm  not  sure  but 
that  lack  is  what  makes  her  so  interesting.  I  have  been 
attracted  a  million  times  by  passion;  have  I  ever  been 
attracted  by  sheer  purity?  Yes — there  is  one.  Anna- 
bel Milbanke !" 

There  rose  before  his  mind's  eye  a  vision  of  the  tall 
statelinees  he  had  so  often  seen  at  Melbourne  House.  He 
seemed  to  feel  again  the  touch  of  cool,  ringless  fingers. 
How  infinitely  different  she  was  from  others  who  had 
been  more  often  in  his  fancy!  She  had  attracted  him 
from  his  first  street  glimpse  of  her — ^from  the  first  day 
he  looked  into  her  calm  virginal  eyes  across  a  dinner- 
table.  It  was  her  placidity — ^the  very  absence  of  chaos 
— ^that  drew  him.  She  represented  the  one  type  of 
which  he  was  not  tired.  Besides,  she  was  beautiful — 
not  with  the  ripe,  red,  exotic  beauty  of  Lady  Caroline 
Lamb,  or  the  wilder  eccentric  charm  of  Jane  Clermont, 
but  with  the  unalterable  serenity  of  a  rain-washed  sky, 
a  snow-bank,  a  perfect  statue. 

On  his  jaded  mood  the  thought  of  her  fell  with  a 
salving  relief,  like  rain  on  a  choked  highway.  A  link- 
boy,  throwing  open  the  carriage  door,  broke  his  reverie. 

He  looked  up.  The  bright,  garish  lanterns  smote 
him  with  a  new  and  alien  sense  of  distaste.  Beyond  the 
stage-entrance  and  the  long  dim  passage  lay  the  candle- 
lighted  greenroom,  the  select  coterie  that  gossiped  there. 


THE   CASTAWAY  85 

and— Jane  Clermont.  In  Portman  Square,  in  the  city's 
west  end,  Lady  Jersey  was  standing -by  her  bower  of 
roses  and  somewhere  in  the  throng  about  her  moved  a 
tall,  spirit-looking  girl  with  calm,  lash-shaded  eyes. 

Gordon  saw  both  pictures  clearly  as  he  paused,  his 
foot  on  the  carriage  step.  Then  he  spoke  to  the  coach- 
man. 

'^To  Lady  Jersey's/'  he  said,  and  reentered  the  car,- 
riage. 


CHAPTEK  XI 

THE  BEATEN  PATH 

The  late  sun,  rosying  the  lake  beside  the  mined  clois- 
ter, had  drawn  its  flame-wrought  curtains  across  the 
moor  that  lay  about  Newstead,  and  the  library  was  full 
of  shadows  as  Gordon  groped  in  the  darkness  for  a  can- 
dle. 

Dinner  was  scarce  through,  for  the  party  he  had 
gathered — ^who  for  a  noisy  fortnight  had  made  the 
gray  old  pile  resound  to  the  richest  fooleries  in  the 
range  of  their  invention — did  not  rise  before  noon,  had 
scarce  breakfasted  by  two,  and  voted  the  evening  still 
in  its  prime  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  Ab- 
bey had  been  theirs  to  turn  upside  down  and  they  had 
given  rein  to  every  erratic  audacity.  That  very  day 
they  had  had  the  servants  drag  into  the  dining-room  an 
old  stone  coffin  from  the  rubbish  of  the  tumble-down 
priory;  had  resurrected  from  some  cobwebbed  corner  a 
set  of  monkish  dresses  with  all  the  proper  apparatus  of 
crosses  and  beads  with  which  they  had  opened  a  con- 
ventual chapter  of  "The  Merry  Monks  of  Newstead"; 
and  had  set  Fletcher  to  polishing  the  old  skull  drink- 
ing-cup  on  whose  silver  mounting  Gordon  long  ago  had 
had  engraved  the  stanzas  he  had  written  on  the  night 

(86) 


THE   CASTAWAY,  87 

his  mother  lay  dead.  The  grotesquerie  had  been  hailed 
with  enthusiasm,  and  the  company  h^d  sat  that  e^n- 
ing  gowned  and  girdled  about  the  dinner-table,  where 
Sheridan's  gray  poll  had  given  him  the  seat  of  honor 
as  abbot. 

Gordon  wore  one  of  the  black  gabardines,  as  he  lit 
the  candle  in  the  utterly  confused  library.  It  was  a 
sullen,  magnificent  chamber.  The  oak  wainscoting  was 
black  with  age.  Tapestries  and  book-shelves  covered 
one  side,  and  floor  and  tables  were  littered  with  reviews 
and  books,  carelessly  flung  from  their  place. 

A  shout,  mingled  with  the  prolonged  howls  of  a  wolf 
and  the  angered  ^%oof''  of  a  bear  sounded  from  the 
driveway — ^the  guests  were  amusing  themselves  with  the 
beasts  chained  on  either  side  of  the  entrance.  These 
were  relics  of  that  old,  resentful  season  when  Gordoa 
had  hermited  himself  there  to  lash  his  critics  with  his 
defiant  Satire.  The  wolf,  he  had  then  vowed,  should  be 
entered  for  the  deanery  of  St.  Paul's,  and  the  bear  sit 
for  a  theological  fellowship  at  Cambridge. 

For  a  moment,  candle  in  hand,  he  listened  to  the 
mingled  noises,  his  head  on  one  side,  a  posture  almost  of 
irksomeness.  He  started  when  Sheridan's  hand  fell  on 
his  shoulder. 

"By  the  Lord!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  took  you  for  the 
Abbey  ghost !" 

Sheridan  laughed,  lit  the  cigar  Gordon  handed  him, 
and  sat  down,  tucking  the  ends  of  his  rope-girdle  be- 
tween his  great  knees.  The  tonsure  he  had  contrived 
was  a  world  too  small  for  his  massive  head,  and  the 
monk's  robe  showed  inconsistent  glimpses  of  red  waist- 
coat and  fawn-colored  trousers  where  its  edges  gaped. 


88  THE    CASTAWAY 

^'What  are  you  mooning  over?''  he  asked.  *^Goi  a 
new  poem  in  mind?'' 

"No.  To-day  I  have  thrown  two  into  the  fire  to  my 
comfort,  and  smoked  out  of  my  head  the  plan  of  an- 
other." 

"Sentimental?" 

"Not  I.  I  was  thinking  of  the  East.  I  wish  I  might 
sail  for  Greece  in  the  spring — ^provided  I  neither  marry 
myself  nor  unmarry  any  one  else  in  the  interval." 

"Why  not  the  first?"  the  other  pursued.  "I  tried  it 
younger  than  you." 

The  speaker  sighed  presently,  and  locking  his  hands 
behind  his  head,  leaned  back  against  the  cushions,  his 
fine,  rugged  face  under  its  shock  of  rough  gray  hair, 
turned  tender.  "My  pretty  maid  of  Bath!"  he  said 
softly.  "Elizabeth,  my  girl-wife  that  I  fought  a  duel 
for  at  Kingsdown  and  who  ran  away  with  me  to 
France  when  I  hadn't  a  pound !  It's  twelve  years  since 
she  died.  This  is  an  anniversary  to  me,  my  boy.  Forty 
years  ago  to-day  she  married  me.  I  hadn't  written  'The 
Rivals'  then,  nor  gone  to  Parliament — ^nor  grown  old !" 

Gordon  was  silent.  Sheridan's  face,  in  the  candle- 
light, was  older  than  he  had  ever  seen  it.  Age  was 
claiming  him,  though  youth  was  still  in  the  foppish 
dress,  the  brilliant  sparkle  of  the  eye,  the  sharp  quick- 
ness on  the  tongue.  But  the  wife  he  remembered  at 
that  moment  had  belonged  to  a  past  generation. 

A  muffled  call  came — "Sherry!  Sherry!"  and  at  the 
summons  the  gray  head  lifted  and  the  gleam  of  in- 
corrigible humor  shot  again  across  the  thin  cheeks.  "The 
rogues  are  whooping  for  me !"  he  chuckled,  and  hurried 
out. 


THE   CASTAWAY  89 

Gordon  stared  into  the  gloom  of  the  open  window 
opposite  in  a  reverie.  That  echo  of  stilMiving  memory 
struck  across  his  whimsical  mood  with  strange  direct- 
ness, like  a  voice  speaking  insistently  of  simple  human 
needs. 

"To  love,  to  marry — "  he  reflected.  "It  is  the  re- 
course of  the  highest  intellect  as  well  as  the  lowest. 
There  is  Sheridan.  He  is  brain  at  its  summit.  He  puts 
more  intellect  into  squeezing  a  new  case  of  claret  out  of 
a  creditor  tradesman  than  the  average  man  has  in  his 
whole  brain-box.  He  has  written  the  very  best  drama 
and  delivered  the  very  best  single  oration  ever  conceived 
or  heard  in  England.  And  now,  without  his  pretty 
wife,  he  is  a  prey  to  debt,  to  gaming  and  to  the  bailiffs ! 
Peace  and  single  possession,  the  Eden-right  of  man — 
the  having  and  holding  from  all  the  world  of  one  warm, 
human  sympathy — ^that  is  the  world's  way,  the  clear 
result  of  ages  of  combined  experience.'' 

He  looked  up  at  a  pounding  of  hoofs  outside  and  a 
howl  from  the  chained  wolf.  The  sounds  merged  into 
a  hilarious  hubbub  from  the  dining-room,  betokening 
some  neighborhood  arrival. 

His  eyes,  still  gazing  through  the  parted  curtains, 
could  discern  dimly  on  the  terrace  a  white  image  stand- 
ing out  in  relief  from  the  swathing  darkness.  It  was  a 
statue  of  Vesta,  goddess  of  the  domestic  fireside.  It 
seemed  to  gaze  in  at  him  with  a  peculiar  quiet  signifi- 
cance. To  the  Eomans  that  image  had  stood  for  the 
hearthstone — for  all  the  sweet,  age-old  conventionali- 
ties of  life,  such  as  enshrined  his  sister,  in  her  placid 
country  home,  her  children  around  her.  He  had  a  vi- 
sion of  a  stately  figure  moving  about  the  Abbey  with 


99  THE   CASTAWAY. 

a  watching  solicitude,  and  there  flashed  into  his  inin3 
the  beginning  of  one  of  his  poems: 

"She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies — '* 

It  sang  itself  over  in  his  brain.  The  woman  he 
would  choose  would  be  like  that — cool,  cloudless,  beau- 
tiful as  the  night  outside  the  open  window.  He  knew 
such  a  woman,  as  flawless  and  as  lovely — one,  and  one 
only.  His  thought,  unweighted  by  purpose,  had  fol- 
lowed her  since  that  July  afternoon  when  she  had 
handed  him  the  golden  guinea  in  exchange  for  his  book. 
She  was  not  in  London  now.  At  that  moment  she  was 
in  Mansfield,  a  sharp  gallop  across  the  Newstead  moor. 
If  he  had  ever  had  a  dream  of  feminine  perfectness, 
she  was  its  embodiment.  Would  marriage  with  such  a 
one  fetter  him  ?  In  the  great  clanging  world  that  teased 
and  worried  him,  would  it  not  be  a  refuge  ? 

A  sudden  recollection  came  to  him,  out  of  the  dust 
of  a  past  year — a  recollection  of  a  youth  with  bright 
eyes  and  tangled  hair,  in  the  Fleet  Prison.  There  had 
been  an  hour,  before  success  had  bitten  him,  when  he 
had  promised  himself  that  fame's  fox-fire  should  not 
lure  him,  that  he  would  cherish  his  song  and  rid  his 
soul  of  the  petty  things  that  dragged  it  down.  How 
had  that  promise  been  fulfilled?  With  poor  adventure, 
and  empty  intrigue  and  flickering  rushlight  amours  to 
which  that  restless  something  in  him  had  driven  him 
on,  an  anchorless  craft  in  the  cross-tides  of  passion ! 

"Home  \"  he  mused.  "To  pursue  no  will-o'-the-wisp 
of  fancy !  To  shut  out  all  vagrant  winds  and  prolong 
that  spark  of  celestial  fire  V* 


THE   CASTAWAY  91 

He  drew  a  quick  sibilant  breath,  sat  down  at  the 
writing-table  and  wrote  hastily  but  unerringly,  a  letter, 
clean-etched  and  unembellished,  a  simple  statement 
and  a  question. 

He  signed  it,  laughing  aloud  as  a  sense  of  wild  in- 
congruity gushed  over  him.  Through  the  heavy  oaken 
doors  he  could  hear  mingled  laughter  and  uproar.  A 
stentorian  bass  was  rumbling  a  drinking-song. 

What  a  challenging  antithesis!  Lava  and  snow — 
erratic  comet  and  chaste  moon — jungle  passions  and  the 
calm  of  a  northern  landscape !  A  proposal  of  marriage 
written  at  such  a  time  and  place,  with  a  drinking-stave 
shouted  in  the  next  room !  And  what  would  be  her  an- 
swer? 

The  daring  grew  brighter  in  his  eye.  He  sealed  the 
letter  with  a  coin  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  sprang  up 
and  jerked  the  bell-rope.    The  footman  entered. 

"Eushton,  have  Selim  saddled  at  once  and  take  this 
note  to  Mansfield.    Eide  like  the  devil.    Do  you  hear  ?" 

^TTes,  my  lord.''  The  boy  looked  at  the  superscrip- 
tion, put  the  note  in  his  pocket  and  was  gone. 

Gordon  laughed  again — a  burst  of  gusty  excitement 
— and  seized  the  full  ink-well  into  which  he  had  dipped 
his  pen.  "It  shall  serve  no  lesser  purpose!''  he  ex- 
claimed, and  hurled  it  straight  through  the  open  win- 
dow. 

Then  he  threw  open  the  door  and  walked  hastily  to- 
ward the  hilarity  of  the  great  dining-room. 


CHAPTER  XII 
*'man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apaet'* 

What  he  saw  as  he  emerged  from  the  haU  was  Sat- 
nrnalia  indeed. 

Sheridan,  his  robe  thrown  open  from  his  capacious 
frame,  sat  with  knees  wide  apart,  his  chair  tilted  back, 
his  face  crumpling  with  amusement.  Hobhouse  sat 
cross-legged  on  the  stone  coflfin.  Others,  robed  and  ton- 
sured, were  grouped  about  the  board,  and  on  it  was 
perched  a  stooped  and  ungainly  figure  in  a  somber  dress 
of  semi-clerical  severity. 

''Sunburn  me,  it's  Dr.  Cassidy,"  muttered  Gordon, 
with  a  grim  smile.  ''And  without  his  tracts  I  What's 
he  doing  at  Newstead?  The  rascals — ^they've  got  him 
fuddled!" 

The  hospitality  offered  in  the  host's  absence  had  in 
truth  proved  too  much  for  the  doctor.  Now,  as  he  bal- 
anced on  his  gaitered  feet  among  the  overturned  wine- 
bottles,  he  looked  a  very  unclerical  figure  indeed.  His 
neck-cloth  was  awry,  and  his  flattish  eyes  had  a  look  of 
comical  earnestness  and  unaccustomed  good-fellowship. 
He  held  a  wine-glass  and  waved  it  in  uncertain  ges- 
tures, his  discourse  punctured  by  frequent  and  unstint- 
ed applause: 


THE    CASTAWAY  93 

^Whai  was  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  doing  in  the  gar- 
den, you  ask.  Why  not  planted  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wall?  Human  reason,  enlightened  by  inspiration, 
finds  no  answer  in  the  divine  Word.  Theology  is  our 
only  refuge.  Adam  was  predestined  to  sin.  All  created 
things  are  contingent  on  omnipotent  volition.  Sin  be- 
ing predestined,  the  process  leading  to  that  sin  must 
be  predestined,  too.  See?  Sin — Adam.  Garden- 
snake.    The  law  of  the  divine  Will  accomplished.^' 

Hobhouse  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 
"Who  could  contemplate  the  picture,'^  he  groaned, 
^Vithout  tears  ?    Poor  fallen  man !    I  weep  for  him.'* 

The  remark  struck  the  lecturer  with  pathos.  The 
look  of  stern  satisfaction  with  which  he  had  so  elo- 
quently justified  the  eternal  tragedy  melted  into  a  com- 
passionate expression  which  had  a  soft  tinge  of  the  ro- 
mantic. He  smiled — a  smile  of  mingled  burgundy  and 
benevolence. 

"Herein,  gentlemen,  appears  our  lesson  of  infinite 
pity.  Man  expelled  from  Eden,  but  still  possessing 
Eve.  Justice  tempered  with  mercy.  Love  of  woman 
compensating  for  the  loss  of  earthly  Paradise." 

"True,  true,''  murmured  Hobhouse.  "^There's 
heaven  on  earth  in  woman's  love,'  as  Mr.  Moore,  here, 
sings.  A  prime  subject  for  another  toast.  Doctor. 
We've  drunk  to  the  navy  and  to  theology;  now  for  a 
glass  to  her  eternal  ladyship ! — ^Egad !  Here's  Gordon !" 

The  final  word  brought  a  shout,  and  the  glasses  were 
refilled.  "Gordon's  toast !"  they  insisted  as  they  opened 
ranks.    "A  toast,  or  a  new  poem !" 

Some  disturbance  out  of  doors  had  roused  the  ani- 


94  THE   CASTAWAY 

mals  kennelled  at  the  hall  entrance  and  a  battery  of 
growls  mingled  with  the  importunities. 

Sheridan  pounded  with  his  great  fist  on  the  jingling 
board  till  the  uproar  stilled.  ^^The  lord  of  the  manor 
speaks !''  he  proclaimed. 

Gordon  approached  the  table  and  picked  up  the  skull- 
cup.  In  the  blaze  of  candle-light,  his  face  showed 
markedly  its  singular  and  magnetic  beauty.  He 
glanced  about  him  an  instant — at  Sheridan's  waggish, 
rough-hewn  countenance,  at  the  circle  of  younger 
flushed  and  uproarious  ones,  and  at  the  labored  solem- 
nity and  surprise  of  the  central  figure  on  the  table.  The 
doctor's  answering  stare  was  full  of  a  fresh  bewilder- 
ment; he  was  struggling  to  recall  a  message  he  had 
brought  to  some  one — ^he  had  forgotten  to  whom — 
which  in  the  last  half -hour  had  slipped  like  oil  from  his 
mind. 

In  Gordon's  brain  verses  yet  unwritten  had  been 
grouping  themselves  that  afternoon — verses  that  not  for 
long  were  to  be  set  in  type — and  he  spoke  them  now; 
not  flippantly,  but  with  a  note  of  earnestness  and  of 
feeling,  a  light  flush  in  his  cheek  tingeing  the  colorless 
white  of  his  face,  and  his  gray-blue  eyes  darkened  to 
violet. 

"Woman!  though  framed  in  weakness,  ever  yet 
Her  heart  reigns  mistress  of  man's  varied  mind. 

And  she  will  follow  where  that  heart  is  set 
As  roll  the  waves  hefore  the  settled  wind. 

Her  soul  is  feminine  nor  can  forget — 
To  all  except  love's  image,  fondly  blind. 

And  she  can  e'en  survive  love's  fading  dim, 

And  bear  with  life,  to  love  and  pray  for  him!'* 


THE   CASTAWAY!)  95 

K  was  an  odd  thing  to  see  this  Qompelling  figure, 
standing  in  the  midst  of  these  monkish  roisterers,  all 
in  celibate  robes  and  beads,  declaiming  lines  of  such 
passionate  beauty  and  in  a  voice  flexible  and  appealing. 
An  odd  toast  to  drink  from  such  a  goblet ! 

"Man's  love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart, 

'Tis  woman's  whole  existence;  man  may  range 

The  court,  camp,  church,  the  vessel  and  the  mart, 
Sword,  gown,  gain,  glory  offer  in  exchange. 

Pride  and  ambition  may  o'errun  his  heart. 
And  few  there  are  whom  these  can  not  estrange. 

Woman  knows  but  one  refuge,  if  love  err — 

To  draw  him  from  these  baubles,  back  to  her! " 

There  was  an  instant  of  dead  silence  when  he  paused, 
broken  by  the  doctor's  hiccough  and  a  voice  behind 
them. 

Sheridan  saw  Gordon  set  down  the  skull-cup  as  the 
spot  of  color  faded  from  his  cheek.  He  turned  to  the 
entrance. 

*'Curse  catch  me!'*  gasped  the  wit,  springing  to  his 
feet    **Lady  Melbourne  and  Miss  Milbankel" 


CHAPTEK  XIII 

THE  SMIRCHED  IMAGE 

All  turned  astonislied  faces.  Just  inside  the  oakeit 
door  swung  wide  open  to  the  night,  stood  her  lady- 
ship, her  features  expressing  a  sense  of  humor  strug- 
gling with  dignity,  and  just  behind  her,  with  a  look  of 
blent  puzzle  and  surprise,  her  stately  niece,  Annabel 
Milbanke.  Mrs.  Muhl,  Gordon's  withered  fire-lighter^^ 
was  hovering  in  the  rear. 

It  was  a  tense  moment.  Gordon's  glance  swept  An- 
nabel's  face — distinguished  a  letter  still  unopened  in 
her  hand — as  he  came  forward  to  greet  them.  A  dull 
red  was  climbing  over  Cassid/s  sobering  face,  and  with 
something  between  a  gulp  and  a  groan  he  got  down 
heavily  from  his  commanding  position. 

It  was  Lady  Melbourne  who  broke  the  pause : 

"I  fear  we  intrude.  We  were  driving  across  td 
Annesley  where  there  is  a  ball  to-night,  and  felt 
tempted  to  take  your  lordship  with  us.  We  had  not 
known  of  your  guests.  Dr.  Cassidy  rode  ahead  to  ap- 
prise you  of  our  call.'* 

The  doctor  was  mopping  his  mottled  brow.  He  was 
far  too  miserable  to  reply. 

*'I  fear  our  hospitality  outran  our  discretion,''  ven« 
(96) 


THE   CASTAWAY  97 

tared  Gordon.  "The  doctor  perhaps  forgot  to  mentioa 
it/^ 

Lady  Melbourne's  quick  gaze  overran  the  scene  and 
lingered  on  the  crosses  and  the  monkish  robes  with  a 
slow-dawning  smile. 

Sheridan  made  a  dramatic  gesture.  ^TLio,  the  first 
poet  of  his  age  in  the  depths  of  one  of  his  abandoned 
debauches!'^  He  pointed  to  Mrs.  Muhl  who  stood  in 
the  background,  her  wrinkled  countenance  as  brown  as 
a  dry  toast — "Behold  the  troop  of  Paphian  damsels,  as 
pictured  in  the  Morning  Post  I  Evasion  is  no  longer  pos- 
sible.'' 

"I  see.    And  you,  Doctor  ?'^ 

"The  doctor,'^  said  Moore,  maintaining  his  gravity, 
'Qiad  just  read  us  his  latest  trad" 

*T.  regret  we  missed  it."  She  turned  to  Gordon. 
"We  will  not  linger.  Good  night,  gentlemen.  No," — 
as  Gordon  protested — "our  carriage  and  escort  are  wait- 
ing." 

"My  dear  Lady  Melbourne,"  interposed  Sheridan, 
"the  entire  chapter  shall  escoxt  you.  As  abbot,  I  claim 
my  right," — and  he  offered  her  his  arm.  Gordon  fol- 
lowed with  her  niece. 

Annabel's  hand  fluttered  on  his  sleeve.  "We  heard 
your  toast,"  she  said.    "I  did  not  dream  it  of  you." 

On  ^e  threshold  a  tide  of  rich  light  met  them.  The 
moon  had  risen  and  was  lifting  above  the  moor  beyond 
a  belt  of  distant  beechwood,  bathing  the  golden  flanks 
of  ihe  hills,  flooding  the  long  lake  with  soft  yellow  lus- 
ter and  turning  the  gray  ruins  of  the  priory  to  dull 
silver.  Lady  Melbourne  led  the  way  out  on  to  the  mole 
of  the  drained  moat  with  a  cry  of  delight:   "What  a 


98  THE   castaway; 

perfect  lilac  night !  It  is  like  Venice.  AH  it  lacks  is  ai 
gondola  and  music.'' 

Gordon  and  Annabel  had  lingered  at  the  turn  of  the 
parapet.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  the  letter 
she  held  with  his  forefinger.  'TTou  have  not  opened  it.'* 

''JN"o.  Your  footman  met  us  coming  in  the  lodge 
gate." 

'^Eead  it.'^ 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  hesitatingly.  For  a 
long  time  she  had  not  been  ignorant  of  her  interest  in 
George  Gordon.  She  admired  him  also,  as  every  woman 
admires  talent  and  achievement,  and  the  excess  of  wor- 
ship which  the  world  gave  him  fed  her  pride  in  the 
special  measure  of  his  regard.  She  saw  something  new 
in  his  look  to-night — something  more  genuine,  yet  il- 
lusive. 

'Tlead  it,"  he  repeated. 

She  broke  the  seal  and  held  the  written  page  to  the 
moonlight.  As  she  read,  a  soft  mellow  note  arose.  It 
was  Hobhouse's  violoncello,  playing  an  aria  of  Eossini's 
— a  haunting  melody  that  matched  the  night.  The 
notes  were  still  throbbing  when  her  eyes  lifted. 

Gordon  had  taken  a  golden  guinea  from  his  pocket; 
he  leaned  forward  and  laid  it  on  the  letter's  waxen 
seal.    It  fitted  the  impression. 

''It  was  a  gift,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  one  you  gave  me 
that  day  at  the  book-shop." 

She  felt  a  sudden  tremor  of  heart — or  of  nerves. 

''Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  thrilled  for  a  brief  moment; 
"and  you  kept  it?" 

At  that  instant  a  figure  approached  them  across  the 
terrace,  doffing  his  cap  awkwardly.    It  was  the  under- 


THE   CASTAWAY]  99 

gardener,  bringing  a  trinket  he  had  found  that  after- 
noon among  the  lily-bulbs. 

Gordon  looked  at  the  plain  gold  circlet  he  handed 
him.  He  turned  to  Annabel  with  a  strange  expression 
as  the  man  disappeared. 

"It  is  my  mother's  wedding-ring/'  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.    "It  was  lost  when  I  was  a  child.'' 

^TIow  very  odd,"  she  commented,  "to  find  it — to- 
day!" 

The  music  had  ceased,  and  Lady  Melbourne  and  her 
tonsured  attendants  were  coming  toward  them. 

Annabel's  hand  rested  on  the  stone  railing  and  Gor- 
don took  it,  looking  full  into  her  eyes. 

"Shall  I  put  it  on?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  from  the  ring  to  his  face — ^her  cool  fin- 
gers trembling  in  his. 

^TTes,"  she  answered,  and  he  slipped  it  on  her  finger. 

The  noise  of  the  departing  carriage-wheels  had  scarce 
died  away  when  Sheridan  entered  the  library,  whither 
Gordon  had  preceded  him.  He  was  tittering  inordi- 
nately. 

"I've  been  trying  to  find  Cassidy,"  he  said,  *^ut  he's 
gone.  Went  and  got  his  horse  while  Hobhouse  was  fid- 
dling.   Poor  doctor !    If  he'd  only  been  a  parson !" 

"Look,  look !"  cried  Gordon.  He  was  pointing  to  the 
window. 

Sheridan  stared.  The  unwavering  moonlight  fell  on 
the  image  of  Vesta — ^no  longer  marble-white.  The  ink- 
well Gordon  had  hurled  through  the  window  had  struck 
full  on  its  brows,  and  the  clear  features  and  raiment 
were  blackened  and  befouled  with  a  sinister  stain ! 


CHAPTER  XIY 

WHAT  CAME  OF  THE  TEEACLE-MOON 

"The  treacle-moon  is  over.  I  am  awake  and  find  my- 
self married/' 

Gordon  read  the  lines  in  the  diary  he  held,  by  the  fad- 
ing daylight.  He  sat  in  the  primrosed  garden  of  his 
town  house  on  Piccadilly  Terrace,  beside  a  wicker  tea- 
table.  The  day  was  at  its  amber  hour.  The  curtains 
of  the  open  windows  behind  him  waved  lazily  in  the 
breeze  and  the  fragrance  of  hawthorn  clung  like  a  ca- 
ress across  the  twilight.  What  he  read  had  been  the  last 
entry  in  the  book. 

He  smiled  grimly,  remembering  the  nigkt  he  had 
written  it.  It  was  at  Seaham,  the  home  of  his  wife's 
girlhood,  the  final  day  of  their  stay — ^the  end  of  that 
savorless  month  of  sameness  and  stagnation,  of  eating 
fruit  and  sauntering,  playing  dull  games  at  cards,  yawn- 
ing, reading  old  Annual  Registers  and  the  daily  papers, 
listening  to  the  monologue  that  his  elderly  father-in- 
law  called  conversation,  and  watching  the  growth  of 
stunted  gooseberry  bushes — the  month  in  which  he  had 
eaten  of  the  bitter  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge.  To- 
day he  recalled  the  trenchant  features  of  that  visit  dis- 
tinctly: the  prim,  austere  figure  of  Lady  Noel,  his 
(100) 


THE   CASTAWAY  101 

wife's  mother,  presiding  at  the  table;  Sir  Ealph  oppo- 
site, mumbling  for  the  third  time,  over  a  little  huddle 
of  decanters  which  could  neither  interrupt  nor  fall 
asleep,  the  speech  he  had  made  at  a  recent  tax-meeting; 
his  own  wife  with  eyes  that  so  seldom  warmed  to  his, 
but  grew  keener  each  day  to  glance  cold  disapproval; 
and  Mrs.  Clermont,  Lady  ^N'oeFs  companion  and  con- 
fidante, black-gowned,  bloodless,  with  noiseless  gliding 
step  and  observant  gaze — Jane  Clermont^s  aunt,  bs  he 
had  incidentally  learned. 

^^The  treacle-moon  is  over!"  And  that  satiric  com- 
ment had  been  penned  almost  a  year  ago ! 

Gordon  moved  his  shoulders  with  a  quick  gesture,  as 
though  dismissing  an  unpleasant  reflection,  and  took 
from  his  pocket  a  little  black  phial.  He  measured  out  a 
minute  quantity  of  the  dark  liquid  into  a  glass  and 
poured  it  full  of  water.  He  drank  the  dull,  cloudy 
mixture  at  a  draft. 

**How  strange  that  mind  should  need  this!"  he  said 
to  himself.  *^My  brain  is  full  of  images — ^rare,  beauti- 
ful, dreamlike — ^but  they  are  meaningless,  incoherent, 
unattached.  A  few  drops  of  this  elixir  and  they  coal- 
esce, crystallize,  transform  themselves — ^and  I  have  a 
poem.  I  have  only  to  write  it  down.  I  wrote  'Lara'  in 
three  evenings,  while  I  was  undressing  from  the  opera,  i 
It  shan't  master  me  as  it  has  De  Quincey,  either.  Why, 
all  my  life  I  have  denied  myself  even  meat.  My  soul 
shall  not  be  the  slave  of  any  appetite !" 

He  smiled  whimsically  as  he  set  down  the  glass: 
''What  nonsense  it  is  to  talk  of  soul,"  he  muttered, 
'Svhen  a  cloud  makes  it  melancholy,  and  wine  makes  it 
mad!" 


102  THE   CASTAWAY 

He  paused,  listening  intently.  A  low  sound,  an  in- 
fant's cry,  had  caught  his  ear.  His  eyes  grew  darker 
violet.    His  look  changed. 

'^Ada !  Ada !"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 

In  his  voice  was  a  singular  vibrant  accent — intense, 
eager,  yet  the  words  had  the  quality  of  a  sacrament  and 
a  consecration. 

He  rose,  thrust  the  diary  into  his  pocket  and  went 
into  the  house,  ascending  the  stair  to  a  small  room  at 
the  end  of  the  hall.  The  door  was  ajar  and  a  dim  light 
showed  within.  He  listened,  then  pushed  the  door 
wider  and  entered.  A  white  nursery  bed  stood  in  one 
corner,  and  Gordon  noiselessly  placed  a  chair  beside  it 
and  sat  down,  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  his  chin  in  his 
hand,  looking  at  the  little  face  against  the  pillow,  the 
tiny  fist  lying  on  the  coverlid. 

Gazing,  his  deeply  carved  lips  moulded  softly,  a  sense 
of  the  overwhelming  miracle  of  life  possessed  him. 
This  small  fabric  was  woven  of  his  own  flesh.  He  saw 
his  own  curving  mouth,  his  full  chin,  his  brow !  Some 
day  those  hands  would  cling  to  his,  those  lips  would 
frame  the  word  "father.''  What  of  life's  pitfalls,  of  its 
tragedies,  awaited  this  new  being  he  had  brought  into 
the  world? 

He  sighed,  and  as  if  in  answer,  the  baby  sighed  too. 
The  sound  smote  him  strangely.  Was  there  some  oc- 
cult sympathy  between  them?  Her  birthright  was  not 
only  of  flesh,  but  of  spirit.  Had  she  also  share  in  his 
isolated  heart,  his  wayward  impulses,  his  passionate 
pride? 

At  length  he  took  out  the  diary  and  opening  it  on  his 


THE   castaway;  103 

Icnee,  began  to  write — ^lines  whose  feeling  swelled  from 
some  great  wave  of  tenderness : 

"Ada!  my  one  sweet  daughter!  if  a  name 
Dearer  and  purer  were,  it  sliould  be  thine. 

Whate'er  of  earth  divide  us  I  shall  claim 
Not  tears,  but  tenderness  to  answer  mine: 

Go  where  I  will,  to  me  thou  art  the  same— 
A  loved  regret  which  I  would  not  resign. 

There  are  but  two  things  in  my  destiny, — 

A  world  to  roam  through,  and  a  home  with  thee. 

I  can  reduce  all  feelings  but  this  one; 

And  that  I  would  not; — for  at  length  I  see 
Such  scenes  as  those  wherein  my  life  begun. 

The  earliest — even  the  only  paths  for  me — 
Had  I  but  sooner  learned  the  crown  to  shun, 

I  had  been  better  than  I  now  can  be; 
The  passions  which  have  torn  me  would  have  died; 
I  had  not  suffered,  and  thou  hadst  not  sighed. 

I  feel  almost  at  times  as  I  have  felt 

In  happy  childhood;  trees,  and  flowers  and  brooks 
Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 

Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books. 
Come  as  of  yore  upon  me,  and  can  melt 

My  heart  with  recognition  of  their  looks; 
Till  even  at  moments  I  have  thought  to  see 
Some  living  thing  to  love — but  none  like  thee. 

With  false  ambition  what  had  I  to  do? 

Little  with  love,  and  least  of  all  with  fame. 
And  yet  they  came  unsought,  and  with  me  grew. 

And  made  me  all  which  they  can  make — a  name. 
Yet  this  was  not  the  end  I  did  pursue; 

Surely  I  once  beheld  a  nobler  aim. 
Yet  if  thou  help  me  find  it — even  so 
Shall  I  be  glad  that  I  have  purchased  woe!" 


104  THE   CASTAWAY 

The  door  of  the  room  adjoining  opened  and  a  figure 
dressed  in  white  appeared.    He  rose  and  passed  through. 

"You  wished  me,  Annabel  ?" 

"I  do  not  wish  Ada  disturbed.  As  you  know,  I  am 
starting  with  her  to  Seaham  to-morrow,  and  she  needs 
the  rest.^^ 

"I  was  very  quiet/^  he  said  almost  apologetically,  and 
a.  little  wearily. 

Her  critical  eye  had  wandered  to  the  book  and  pencil 
in  his  hand.  The  look  was  cold — glacially  so — and 
disapproving,  as  she  asked  with  quiet  point: 

^^My  lord,  when  do  you  intend  to  give  up  your  tire- 
some habit  of  versifying  ?" 

He  stared  at  her.  In  all  her  lack  of  understanding, 
she  had  at  least  spared  him  this.  Yet  this  was  really 
what  she  thought!  At  heart  she  despised  him  for  the 
only  thing  that  to  him  made  life  endurable.  She  took 
no  pride  in  his  poetry,  wished  him  a  man  like  others  of 
her  circle — a  dull,  church-going,  speech-reading,  tea- 
-drinking,  partridge-hunting  clod!  A  flush  blurred  his 
vision. 

''Surely,"  a  thin  edge  of  contempt  cutting  in  her 
words,  "you  do  not  intend  always  to  do  only  this  ?  You 
are  a  peer,  you  have  a  seat  in  the  Lords.  You  might  be 
anything  you  choose.'^ 

"But  if  I  am — ^what  I  choose?"  he  said  difficultly. 

A  chill  anger  lay  behind  her  constrained  manner. 
Her  lips  were  pressed  tight  together.  During  the 
whole  time  of  their  marriage  he  had  never  seen  her 
display  more  feeling  than  in  that  brief  moment  on  the 
terrace  at  Newstead  when  he  had  put  his  mother's  ring 
upon  her  finger.    For  a  long  time  he  had  watched  for 


THE    CASTAWAY  105 

some  sign — each  day  feeling  his  heart,  so  savage  of  vi- 
tality, contract  and  harden  under  that  colorless  re- 
straint— till  he  had  come  to  realize  that  the  untroubled 
gentleness  was  only  passivity,  the  calm  strength  but 
complacency  as  cold  as  the  golden  guinea  he  had  treas- 
ured, that  the  flower  he  had  chosen  for  its  white  fra- 
grance was  a  sculptured  altar-lily.  Now  her  mind 
seemed  jolted  from  its  conventional  groove.  The  fact 
was  that  the  constant  flings  of  his  enemies,  which  he 
noted  with  sovereign  contempt,  had  pierced  her  deeply, 
wounding  that  love  of  the  woiid's  opinion  so  big  in  her. 
And  a  venomous  review  which  her  mother  had  brought 
her  that  day  had  mingled  its  abuse  with  a  strain  of  pity 
for  her,  and  pity  she  could  not  bear. 

*'Why  do  you  not  choose  to  live  like  other  men?"  she 
broke  out.  "There  is  something  so  selfish,  so  unnatural 
in  your  engrossed  silences,  your  changeable  moods,  your 
disregard  of  ordinary  customs.  You  believe  nothing 
that  other  men  believe." 

His  face  had  grown  weirdly  white.  The  sudden  out- 
burst had  startled  him.  He  was  struggling  with  re- 
sentment. 

"Cassidy's  doctrinal  tracts,  for  instance?"  The  query 
had  a  tinge  of  sarcasm. 

She  bit  her  lips.  *'You  have  no  idea  of  reverence  for 
anything.  I  might  have  guessed  it  that  night  at  New- 
stead  from  the  way  you  treated  him !  You  speak  your 
views  on  religion — ^views  that  I  hate — openly,  anywhere. 
You  write  and  print  them,  too,  in  your  verse !" 

"You  are  frank,"  he  said ;  "let  me  be  the  same.  What 
my  brain  conceives  my  hand  shall  write.  If  I  valued 
fame,  I  should  flatter  received  opinions.     That  I  have 


106  THE    CASTAWAYi 

never  done !  I  cannot  and  will  not  give  the  lie  to  my 
doubts,  come  what  may/' 

*^What  right  have  you  to  have  those  doubts  ?''  Her 
anger  was  rising  full-fledged,  and  bitter-winged  with 
malice,  '^hy  do  you  set  yourself  against  all  that  is 
best?  What  do  you  believe  in  that  is  good,  I  should 
like  to  know?" 

"I  abhor  books  of  religion,"  he  responded  steadily, 
*'and  the  blasphemous  notions  of  sectaries.  I  have  no 
belief  in  their  absurd  heresies  and  Thirty-nine  Articles. 
I  feel  joy  in  all  beautiful  and  sublime  things.  But  I 
hate  convention  and  cant  and  lay-figure  virtue,  and 
shall  go  on  hating  them  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"To  the  end  of  the  chapter!"  she  echoed.  'TTou 
mean  to  do  nothing  more — ^to  think  of  nothing  but 
scribbling  pretty  lines  on  paper  and  making  a  myster^^ 
of  yourself!  What  is  our  life  to  be  together?  What 
did  you  marry  me  for  ?" 

"Bella!"  The  word  was  almost  a  cry.  "I  married 
you  for  faith,  not  for  creeds!  I  am  as  I  have  always 
been — I  have  concealed  nothing.  I  married  you  for 
sympathy  and  understanding!  I  know  I  am  not  like 
other  men — ^but  I  tried  to  make  you  love  and  under- 
stand me! — I  tried!    Why  did  you  marry  me?" 

For  an  instant  the  real  pain  in  the  appeal  seemed  to 
cleave  through  her  icy  demeanor  and  she  made  an  in- 
voluntary movement.  But  as  she  hesitated,  Fletcher 
knocked  at  the  door : 

"Mr.  Sheridan,  my  lord,  come  to  take  you  to  Drury 
Lane." 

The  words  congealed  the  softer  feeling.  As  the  valet 
withdrew,  she  turned  upon  her  husband. 


THE   CASTAWAY  10? 

"Sheridan!  and  Drury  Lane!  Thai  is  the  kind  of 
company  you  prefer  to  keep !  A  doddering  old  man  who 
falls  asleep  over  his  negus  in  White's  bow-window, 
coming  and  going  here  at  all  hours,  and  littering  the 
library  with  his  palsied  snuff-taking.'' 

A  doddering  old  man!  It  was  true.  The  soul  of 
White's  and  Brookes',  the  first  table  wit  and  vivant  of 
the  kingdom,  the  companion  of  a  royal  prince — ^he,. 
^^Sherry,"  who  all  his  life  had  never  known  ache  or 
pain,  not  even  the  gout,  who  had  out-dandied  and  out* 
bumpered  the  youngest  of  them — ^had  lived  beyond  his 
time.  The  welcome  of  the  gay  world  had  dwindled  to 
a  grudging  patronage.  Gordon  had  more  than  once  of 
late  come  between  him  and  a  low  sponging-house  or  the 
debtors'  prison.  Yet  at  his  wife's  tone,  a  gleam  of 
anger  shot  into  his  eyes — anger  that  made  them  steely- 
blue  as  sword  blades. 

"Sheridan  was  my  friend,"  he  said,  '^y  friend 
from  the  first,  when  others  snarled.  He  is  old  now — 
old  and  failing — ^but  he  is  still  my  friend.  Is  a  man  to 
pay  no  regard  to  loyalty  or  friendship  ?" 

**He  should  have  regard  first  to  his  own  reputation. 
Do  you?  Even  Brummell  and  Petersham  and  your 
choice  fops  of  the  Cocoa-Tree  tavern  and  the  Drury; 
Lane  committee  have  some  thought  for  the  world's 
opinion.  But  you  have  none.  You  care  nothing  for 
what  it  thinks  of  you  or  of  your  morality." 

"Morality!"  he  repeated  slowly.  "I  never  heard  the 
word  before  from  anybody  who  was  not  a  rascal  that 
used  it  for  a  purpose !" 

^^Why  will  you  sit  silent,"  she  continued^  "and  hear 


108  THE    CASTAWAY 

yourself  defamed  everywhere  without  a  word?  Why 
will  yon  not  defend  yourself  T' 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  the  flash  of  indignation 
past.  She  had  touched  the  point  of  least  response.  The 
shrug  angered  her  even  more  than  his  satiric  reply: 

^^What  man  can  bear  refutation?'' 

^TTou  seem  to  think  it  beneath  your  dignity  to  deny 
slander/'  she  went  on.  "You  always  did.  I  thought 
it  would  be  different  after  we  were  married.  But  it 
has  grown  worse.  The  papers  print  more  and  more 
horrible  things  of  you,  and  you  do  not  care — either  for 
yourself  or  for  me !" 

He  gazed  at  her  with  a  curious  intentness. 

"Surely  you  pay  no  heed  to  such  irresponsible  tales  ?" 

"If  they  were  all!  Do  you  suppose  I  do  not  hear 
what  people  ^say  besides  ?  They  do  not  spare  my  ears ! 
Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  the  stories — what  they  used 
to  say  of  your  bachelor  affairs — with  Lady  Oxford,  and 
Lady  Frances  Wedderburn  Webster — and  Caro  Lamb  ?" 

"Is  there  none  more  recent?"  A  bitter  smile  had 
^appeared,  called  by  the  veiled  insinuation  in  her  tone. 

Another  name  flew  to  her  tongue,  for  malicious  ru- 
mor had  credited  him  with  a  footlight  amour.  "Yes — 
Jane  Clermont!" 

A  frown  of  incredulity  and  annoy  hung  blackly  on 
his  brow  an  instant.  Had  this  baseless  gratuitous  fling 
gone  beyond  the  circle  of  Drury  Lane  gossipers?  Had 
it  even  reached  his  wife's  ears  ?    Aloud  he  said : 

"Eeally,  I  can  scarcely  hold  myself  responsible  for 
silly  chatterers  who  are  determined  to  Eochefoucauld 
my  motives.  I  seem  to  be  fast  becoming  the  moral 
^sop  of  the  community.    I  am  judged  by  what  I  pre- 


THE   CASTAWAY         ^  109 

STime  Dr.  Cassidy  would  call  a  dramatic  Calvinism—* 
predestined  damnation  without  a  sinner's  own  fanlt/' 

Her  control  was  gone.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak  further  and  turned  away.  He  waited  a  moment 
in  the  doorway,  but  she  did  not  move,  and  with  an  eveu 
*^good  night''  he  left  her. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stair,  during  Gordon's  painful 
interview,  a  black-gowned  woman  had  noiselessly  bent 
over  the  hall  table.  A  letter,  arrived  by  the  post,  had 
been  laid  there  by  Fletcher  for  his  master.  She  lifted 
it  and  examined  it  closely.  The  address  was  written 
in  a  peculiar,  twirly  handwriting,  on  blue-tinted  paper 
that  bore  in  each  corner  the  device  of  a  cockle-shell. 
She  listened,  then  passed  with  it  into  the  library. 

The  room  was  unlighted,  but  a  spring  fire  flickered 
on  the  hearth.  She  caught  up  a  paper-knife  and  crouch- 
ing by  the  hearth  held  its  thin  blade  in  the  flame.  When 
the  metal  was  warmed,  she  softened  the  edges  of  the 
seal  and  with  deftness  that  betrayed  long  practice,  split 
it  off  without  its  breaking,  opened  the  note  and  read  it. 
Her  basilisk  eyes  lighted  with  satisfaction — the  tri- 
umph of  a  long  quest  rewarded.  Then  she  warmed  the 
wax  again,  replaced  it,  and  as  it  hardened,  broke  it 
across  as  if  the  letter  had  been  opened  in  the  ordinary 
manner. 

As  Mrs.  Clermont  rose  to  her  feet,  a  thin,  severe 
figure  stood  on  the  threshold.  She  saw  with  relief 
that  it  was  Lady  Noel,  and  handed  her  the  letter  with 
a  feline  smile. 

^Terhaps  your  ladyship  will  know  if  this  should 


110  THE   CASTAWAY: 

be  preserved/^  slie  said.  ^^I  found  it  just  now  on  the 
floor." 

Lady  N'oel's  eyes  glittered  at  sight  of  the  cockle- 
shells. She  read  it  hastily  by  the  firelight.  Her  look 
was  coldly  yet  triumphantly  malignant  as  she  leaned 
forward. 

"Put  an  outer  wrapper  on  this/^  she  ordered  in  an 
undertone,  "seal  it,  and  take  it  at  once  to  Melbourne 
House.  Give  it  into  William  Lamb's  hands — to  no  one 
else.    Do  you  understand  ?'' 

"Yes,  my  lady,"  the  other  replied,  and  left  her  noise- 
lessly, as  Gordon  came  slowly  down  the  stair. 

"I  have  left  your  lordship  this  evening's  Courier** 
said  Lady  Noel,  forbiddingly. 

"Thank  you,"  he  answered  and  looked  at  it  carelessly. 
On  its  exposed  page  a  pencil  had  marked  an  article  of 
considerable  length  whose  title  was:  "The  Poetical 
Works  of  a  Peer  of  the  Eealm,  viewed  in  connection 
with  Christianity  and  the  Obligations  of  Social  Life." 

Its  final  paragraph  was  underscored  with  meaning 
heaviness : 

"We  have  less  remorse  in  quoting  the  noble  lord," — he 
read — "for,  by  this  time,  we  believe  the  whole  world  is  in- 
clined to  admit  that  he  can  pay  no  compliment  so  valu- 
able as  his  censure,  nor  offer  any  insult  so  intolerable  as 
his  praise.  Crede  Gordon  is  the  noble  lord's  armorial 
motto:  'Trust  Gordon'  is  the  translation  in  the  Red-Book. 
We  cannot  but  admire  the  ingenuity  with  which  his  lord- 
ship has  converted  the  good  faith  of  his  ancestors  into  & 
sarcasm  on  his  own  duplicity." 

A  simmer  of  rage  rose  in  Gordon's  throat.  He  tore 
the  paper  twice  across,  flung  it  down,  and  passed  on  to 


THE   CASTAWAY,  IIH 

the  drawing-room.    Seeing  no  one,  he  rang  for  the  valet* 

'^here  is  Mr.  Sheridan  V  he  demanded. 

Fletcher  was  carrying  a  wine-glass  and  seemed  sur- 
prised at  the  query. 

^^He  was  here  five  minutes  ago,  your  lordship.  Mr. 
Sheridan  looked  very  bad  when  I  let  him  in,  sir.  I 
was  just  getting  him  this  brandy." 

"I  suppose  he  tired  of  waiting,"  thought  Gordon. 
^The  Clermont  has  a  new  part  to-night,  and  Sherry's 
bound  for  Fops'  Alley." 

As  he  buttoned  his  great-coat,  he  heard  a  cry  from 
the  valet,  and  ran  into  the  drawing-room  to  find 
Fletcher  bending  over  the  form  of  the  old  wit,  prostrate 
on  the  floor,  moveless,  speechless,  his  face  swept  by  a 
bluish  pallor. 

"Good  God !"  cried  Gordon.  "Help  me  lift  him  and 
fetch  a  doctor  at  once !" 

With  Fletcher's  aid  the  old  man  was  placed  upon  a 
sofa,  and  Gordon  loosed  the  stiff  neckerchief,  put  a 
cushion  under  the  recumbent  head  and  chafed  the  sick 
man's  hands. 

The  physician  looked  grave  when  he  came. 

"A  paralytic  stroke,"  he  said.  "He  must  be  taken 
home.'^ 


I  CHAPTER  XT 

THE  I»ITFALL 

If  was  later  evening.  Gordon  sat  in  the  library,  the 
diary  in  which  he  had  written  those  lines  to  Ada  open 
before  him. 

Since  the  scene  with  Annabel  whose  dark  aftermath 
had  been  the  illness  of  his  old  friend,  a  deeper  sense 
of  pain  had  oppressed  him.  His  marriage  had  sprang 
from  an  inarticulate  divining  of  the  infinite  need  of 
his  nature  for  such  a  spiritual  influence  as  he  had  im- 
agined she  possessed.  It  had  ended  in  failure.  A 
mood  of  hopelessness  was  upon  him  now  as  he  wrote: 

''Man  is  a  battle-ground  between  angel  and  devil. 
Tenderness  and  roughness — sentiment,  sensuality — soar- 
ing and  grovelling,  dirt  and  deity — all  mixed  in  one 
compound  of  inspired  clay.  Marriage  is  the  hostage 
he  gives  to  his  better  nature.  What  if  this  hostage  con- 
spire with  his  evil  side  to  betray  the  citadel  ? 

''Nature  made  me  passionate  of  temper  but  with  an 
innate  tendency  to  the  love  of  good  in  my  mainspring 
of  mind.  I  am  an  atom  jarring  between  these  great 
discords.  Sympathy  is  the  divine  lifter — ^the  supreme 
harmonizer.  And  shall  that  evade  me  forever?  Where 
fihall  I  find  it?    In  the  cheap  intrigue  that  absorbs  half 

(112) 


THE   CASTAWAY  113 

the  life  of  those  around  me?  Shall  I^tum  to  the  fair- 
est of  those  blandishments,  and,  like  the  drunkard,  for- 
get my  penury  in  the  hiccough  and  happiness  of  in- 
toxication ?" 

The  thought  of  the  delicate  coquetry  of  Jane  Cler- 
mont and  of  the  ripe  beauty  of  Lady  Caroline  Lamb 
flashed  across  the  page,  an  insistent  vision.  He  saw  the 
latter's  eyes,  eager  and  inviting,  as  he  had  so  often 
seen  them  at  Melbourne  House,  when  he  had  turned 
from  them  to  a  paler  beauty.  He  thought  of  a  past 
eeason  when  the  whirlwind  of  her  infatuation  had  wound 
their  two  names  in  gossip  that  had  never  tired.  Love 
with  her  would  have  counted  all  sacrifice  cheap,  all  ob- 
stacles gossamer.  Could  such  a  passion  yield  him  what 
he  craved  ?  Was  he  bound  to  live  pent  within  the  pali- 
sade a  priest's  ceremony  had  reared  about  him  ?  Of  what 
virtue  were  honor  and  faith  to  a  bond  where  love  was 
not? 

But  this  picture  faded  as  he  wrote  across  it  the  an- 
swer to  its  question : 

'*No !  I  will  not.  I  will  keep  the  bond.  Yet  I  and 
the  mother  of  my  child  are  far  apart  as  the  two  poles ! 
:I  am  a  toy  of  inborn  unbeliefs,  linked  to  unemotional 
goodness,  merciless  virtue  and  ice-girdled  piety.  I  am 
asked  to  bow  down  to  arcana  which  to  me  are  bagatelles. 
As  well  believe  in  Koberts  the  Prophet,  or  Breslau  the 
Conjurer  if  he  had  lived  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius !  The 
everlasting  wJiy  which  stares  me  in  the  face  is  an  unfor- 
givable thing.  Yet  to  yield — ^to  go  the  broad,  easy  way 
of  conventional  belief  and  smug  morality — ^to  shackle 
the  doubts  I  feel !  To  anchor  myself  to  the  frozen  mole- 
hills and  write,  like  other  men,  glozed  comfortable  lines 


114  THE    CASTAWAY, 

on  which  friend  and  foe  can  batten  alike,  and  with  whicK 
reviewer  and  reviewee,  rhinoceros  and  elephant,  mam- 
moth and  megalonyx  can  lie  quietly  together !" 

He  threw  down  his  pen,  and  leaned  his  forehead  in 
his  hands. 

^^Would  to  God  I  had  nothing  better  in  this  soul  of 
mine  \"  he  exclaimed.  "The  rest  of  the  world  can  game 
and  kiss  and  besot  themselves  in  peace.  Only  I — I— 
must  writhe  and  struggle  unsatisfied !" 

"There  is  a  carboy  outside,  your  lordship,  who  wishes 
to  see  you.^^ 

"A  carboy  V  Gordon  raised  his  head.  "What  does  he 
want?'' 

"He  says  he  has  a  message  for  your  lordship's  own 
hands.    He's  a  likely-looking  lad." 

"Very  well,  show  him  in.  Hasn't  Kushton  returned 
from  Mr.  Sheridan's  yet  ?"  he  added. 

^TTes,  my  lord.  But  Lady  Noel  sent  him  out  again 
with  a  letter  for  Sir  Kalph  to  his  club." 

Gordon  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Sherry  must  be 
better,"  he  thought.  He  waited  on  the  threshold  till 
Fletcher  ushered  in  a  slim  figure  in  the  round  coat  and 
buttons  of  a  carman.  His  chin  was  muffled  in  a  coarse 
neckerchief,  and  a  rumpled  mass  of  brown  hair  showed 
beneath  the  edges  of  the  cloth  cap  whose  visor  was  pulled 
over  his  eyes. 

"Well,  my  lad?" 

The  boy  stood  still,  twisting  his  fingers  in  his  jacket 
till  the  valet  had  retired.  Then  suddenly  as  the  door 
closed,  the  cap  was  snatched  off,  a  mass  of  brown  hair 
dropped  curling  about  the  boyish  shoulders — the  silver- 
buttoned  jacket  fell  open,  revealing  a  softly  rounded 


THE   CASTAWAY,  115 

throat  and  delicate  slope  of  breast.  Gordon  uttered  afl 
astonished  and  bewildered  exclamation: 

*^Caro !    What  mad  masquerade  is  this  ?" 

She  drew  back  under  the  pale  intensity,  the  con- 
trolled agitation  of  his  face.  "Forgive  me!  forgive 
me!"  Tumult  was  looking  from  her  eyes,  and  her 
shoulders  were  heaving.  "I  could  not  help  it !  I  have 
tried  to  forget  you  during  all  this  past  year.  I  cannot 
bear  to  see  you  only  at  Melbourne  House  and  at  parties 
and  on  the  street.  How  pale  you  always  are  V  she  went 
on.  ^TLike  a  statue  of  marble,  and  your  dark  hair  such 
a  contrast.  I  never  see  you  without  wanting  to  cry.  If 
any  painter  could  paint  me  your  face  as  it  is,  I  would 
give  anything  I  possess  V 

She  had  touched  his  hand,  but  he  drew  it  away; 
sharply,  feeling  a  black  sense  of  entanglement  in  the 
touch. 

'Tiady  Caroline!  This  is  unthinkable!  To  come 
here  in  that  dress — ^here,  to  this  house,  is  sheer  mad- 
ness !    I  did  not  imagine  you  capable  of  such  folly.'' 

^TTou  think  I  am  weak  and  selfish,"  she  pleaded. 
'TTou  have  always  thought  I  did  not  struggle  to  with- 
stand my  feelings.  But  indeed,  indeed,  it  is  more  than 
human  nature  can  bear !  I  loved  you  before  you  mar- 
ried Bella — loved  you  better  than  name,  than  religion, 
than  any  prospects  on  earth !  You  must  have  loved  me 
more  if  you  had  never  seen  her !  She  has  never  cared 
for  you  as  I  do." 

He  darted  a  glance  at  the  door.  His  wife!  A  re- 
bellious anger  rose  in  him  at  being  thrust  into  such  a 
predicament. 

^TTou  have  taken  a  strange  way  to  show  that  love/* 


116        ^^  THE    CASTAWAY 

"Oh,  I  could  show  it  other  ways  V  She  was  looking 
at  him  with  tremulous  daring.  "They  used  to  say  that 
once  in  the  East,  to  prove  to  a  Greek  girl  that  you  loved 
her,  you  wounded  yourself  in  the  breast.  Would  such  a 
thing  make  you  believe  how  I  love  you  ?" 

At  that  moment  both  heard  a  voice  in  the  hallway. 

"Bella  I"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 

^*0h,  I  thought  she  had  gone  to  Seaham/^  she 
breathed.  ^^You  must  believe  I  did  not  know  she  was 
here!'^  She  buttoned  the  coat  over  her  breast  with 
nervous  fingers  and  put  on  the  cloth  cap.  The  sound 
had  thrown  her  into  a  paroxysm  of  dread. 

^^Quick,  quick  V'  she  urged. 

"Not  that  way.  Here,  to  the  garden  entrance !"  He 
caught  her  hand,  drew  her  sharply  toward  the  rear  door 
and  opened  it. 

The  retreat  was  closed.  Lady  Noel,  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  spare  figure  leaning  on  her  cane,  faced  them 
at  the  threshold,  her  gaze  leaping  with  flickering  tri- 
umph. At  the  same  instant  Annabel  entered  by  the 
other  door. 

The  trap  had  sprung,  the  joints  were  working  with 
precision.  Gordon's  first  glance  at  his  wife's  face  told 
him  there  had  been  betrayal,  for  the  look  he  saw  was 
not  of  surprise  or  wonder,  though  its  indignant  lines 
set  themselves  deeper  in  presence  of  the  visible  fact. 
The  jaws  of  this  trap  had  not  been  set  by  accident.  How 
had  Lady  Noel  and  Annabel  guessed  ?  The  latter's  eyes 
were  on  the  carboy's  costume,  as  if  she  would  convince 
herself  doubly  by  every  evidence  of  her  senses.  The 
grim  figure  on  the  threshold  pointed  one  thin  fore- 
finger at  the  shrinking  form  in  the  boy's  dress. 


THE   CASTAWAY  117 

*Take  off  that  cap  r 

Annabel  took  a  quick  step  forward/ as  Lady  Caroline 
snatched  off  the  covering  to  show  a  face  flaming  with 
defiance.    'Taro !"  she  exclaimed — ^''Caro  ?' 

As  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  contempt  rose 
in  a  frigid  wave  over  her  features  and  she  drew  her- 
self up  to  her  full  height  and  stood  stonily  erect. 

Lady  Noel  laughed  with  an  echoing  amusement,  as 
Lady  Caroline  burst  out  in  a  torrent : 

^*You  can  hate  and  despise  me  if  you  want  to,  Bella. 
It  can  make  no  difference  to  me.  Why  did  you  come 
between  us  in  the  first  place?  You  never  loved  him, 
at  least.  You  had  nothing  to  give  him  but  that  hor- 
rible virtuous  indifference  of  yours — ^nothing!  noth- 
ing! You  have  nothing  to  give  him  now.  You  have 
made  his  life  wretched  with  your  perfectness  and  your 
conventions !    Everybody  knows  that !" 

Annabel's  look  swept  her  with  its  sharp  edge  of  scorn ; 
then  flashed  on  Gordon,  who  stood  composed,  motion- 
less, in  a  grip  of  repression. 

'^Is  it  not  enough  for  you  to  have  made  me  the  butt 
of  your  daily  caprice,  your  shameless  atheism?" — she 
drove  the  words  at  her  husband — ^'for  all  London  to 
gossip  of  your  social  ^conquests'  and  your  dissolute  af- 
fairs? Is  this  not  enough — ^that  you  offer  me  the  final 
dishonor  of  such  planned  meetings,  under  this  roof  ?" 

*^t  was  not  his  fault !"  cried  Lady  Caroline,  '^ella ! 
I  will  tell  you  the  truth  P 

Gordon  put  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  protest 
as  Lady  Noel  laughed  again,  musically,  maliciously. 

A  knock  at  the  door  silenced  all  voices.  It  heralded 


118  THE   CASTAWAYi 

Pletcher,  whose  eyes,  habitually  discreet,  seemed  to  see 
no  further  than  his  master. 

^^Mr.  S'omers  is  outside,  sir,  with  the  Melbourne 
coach,  to  wait  for  Lady  Caroline  Lamb." 

Lady  Caroline's  blank,  terror-struck  eyes  turned  to 
Gordon,  and  she  began  to  tremble.  She  ran  and  pulled 
aside  the  portiere  from  the  window.  She  shrank  back 
with  a  gasping  cry,  for  she  recognized  the  coach  drawn 
up  at  the  curb,  whose  lighted  lanterns,  reflected  from 
fawn-covered  panels  emblazoned  with  the  Melbourne 
arms,  lit  plainly  the  figure  of  William  Lamb's  con- 
fidential factotum  waiting  by  its  step.  Her  husband 
had  known  she  was  coming  there !  He  had  sent  Somers 
instead  of  the  coachman — ^he  even  knew  of  the  carbo/s 
dress ! 

A  slow  change  passed  over  her  face.  Fear  and  dread 
had  shown  there  an  instant  pallidly — dread  of  the 
malignant  fury  she  knew  lay  couched  beneath  the  cold 
exterior  of  her  husband;  now  these  were  swallowed  up 
in  a  look  more  burning,  more  intense,  more  terrible — a 
look  of  sudden,  savage  certainty.  She  turned  this  new 
countenance  upon  Gordon. 

^^So!"  she  said  in  a  stifled  voice.  ^TTou  sent  my 
letter  to  my  husband !  You  did  not  count  on  a  scene 
with  Bella — ^but  for  me  who  have  bored  you,  you  took 
this  cruel  way  to  end  it  all !  Well,  you  have  succeeded. 
Now  I  know  Madame  de  Stael  was  right  when  she  called 
you  'demon.'  You  are  without  a  heart.  How  I  have 
loved  you — and  now  I  hate  you.    I  hate  you !" 

He  made  no  reply.  Her  letter?  As  she  spoke  he  had 
had  a  vision  of  Mrs.  Clermont's  noiseless  movements 
and  thin  secret  mouth,  and  suspicion  clogged  his  tongue. 


THE   CASTAWAY)  11^ 

Lady  Caroline  looked  at  him  an  instant  with  a  shud- 
der as  she  passed  out.  "I  shall  always  hate  you/'  she 
said  with  vengeful  emphasis.  They  heard  the  outer 
door  close  heavily  behind  her  and  the  dulled  sound  of 
wheels. 

As  Gordon  turned  again  to  meet  his  wife's  flinty  gaze^ 
the  footman  appeared. 

'^Sir  Ealph  wished  me  to  say  he  would  answer  at 
once,  your  ladyship/'  he  said  to  Lady  Noel. 

*^There  was  no  change  in  Mr.  Sheridan's  conditiony 
Kushton?"  asked  Gordon, 

"Change,  my  lord?"  the  boy  stammered.  '^Why, 
I — ^"  He  looked  from  him  to  the  others,  his  jaw- 
dropped. 

Lady  Noel  shifted  her  cane.  "I  received  Eushton's 
report.  I  thought  it  a  pity  anything  should  interfere 
with  your  lordship's  evening  engagement." 

"Mr.  Sheridan  was  thought  to  be  dying,  my;  lord/* 
said  the  boy,  "and  had  asked  for  you.'* 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  DESPOILING 

As  his  hackney-coach  sped  through  the  night,  Gor- 
don's anger  at  the  inhumanity  that  had  kept  from  him 
the  sick  man's  message,  faded  gradually  into  a  duller 
resentment  that  held  most  of  grief. 

The  words  of  his  wife  recurred  to  his  mind:  "A 
doddering  old  man!"  She  had  seen  only  the  uncer- 
tain walk,  the  trembling  hand,  the  dying  down  of  the 
brilliance  and  fire  into  crumbling  ashes.  Not  the  past, 
the  career  in  Parliament,  the  masterly  craft  of  the  play- 
wright, the  years  of  loyalty  to  his  friends.  Social 
morality  had  been  a  lifelong  jest  to  Sheridan — a  verita- 
ble "School  for  Scandal"  from  which  he  drew  his 
choicest  Ion-mots,  yet  his  whole  character  had  been 
sweetened  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  Annabel 
walked  a  moral  princess  of  parallelograms,  viciously  vir- 
tuous, mercilessly  inflexible.  "And  the  greatest  of  these 
is  charity" — ^whose  was  it?  Annabel's  or  Sheridan's? 

On  the  steps  of  St.  Dunstan's-in-the-West  stood  Dr. 
Cassidy  with  his  friend,  the  under-curate,  and  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  coach  that  whirled  by. 

**Yonder,''  said  Cassidy,  "rides  London's  poet-apos- 
.(120) 


THE   CASTAWAY  121 

tate,  known  by  his  limp  and  his  profligacy.  The  dev- 
otees are  tiring.    How  long  can  the  idol  stand  ?'^ 

The  other  turned  to  gaze.  "Woe  unto  you,  when  all' 
men  shall  speak  well  of  you!"  he  quoted,  "for  so  did 
their  fathers  to  the  false  prophets  !^^  He  also  was  a 
sanctimonious  young  man. 

The  house  that  sheltered  the  old  wit  was  dark  as 
Gordon  ascended  the  steps,  and  the  hollow  echoes  from 
the  knocker,  reverberating  through  the  hall,  chilled  him 
with  dread.  "He  died  an  hour  ago,  your  lordship,"  the 
servant  said. 

An  hour!  And  but  for  the  delay,  he  would  have 
been  in  time!  As  Gordon  entered,  a  prey  to  this  re- 
flection, a  thick-set  man  dressed  shabbily,  ascended  the 
steps.  He  had  once  been  the  dead  man's  groom,  he  ex- 
plained, and  begged  awkwardly  to  be  allowed  to  look 
upon  his  face.  The  servant  hesitated,  but  at  the  grief 
in  the  stranger's  voice,  he  let  him  in,  and  the  new-comer 
pushed  quickly  past  Gordon  and  entered  the  darkened 
bedroom  before  him. 

There  his  profound  emotion  vanished.  He  drew  a 
bailiff's  wand  from  beneath  his  coat  and  touching  the 
rigid  figure  that  lay  there,  proclaimed  with  gruff  tri- 
umph: "I  arrest  this  body  in  the  king's  name,  for  five 
hundred  pounds." 

The  exultant  bailiff  started  at  the  touch  of  fingers 
gripping  his  wrist.  Something  in  Gordon's  face,  though 
now  distorted  with  feeling,  was  familiar. 

"Why,"  he  said,  *'I'm  a  turnkey,  if  you  ain't  the  gent 
that  took  the  young  ladies  into  the  Fleet!" 

''Come  with  me,"  rasped  Gordon  between  his  teeth, 
and  the  bailiff  followed.    In  the  next  room  he  drew  from 


122  THE   CASTAWAY. 

his  pocket  a  draft  from  John  Murray,  his  publisher,  for 
four  hundred  and  eighty  guineas.    Without  a  word  he 
indorsed  this  and  handed  it  to  the  bailiff,  who  scruti- 
nized it  and  counted  out  the  four  pounds  change. 
"J^ow  go  V  said  Gordon. 

The  clock  of  St.  Paul's  was  pealing  the  hour  of 
eleven  as  the  hackney-coach  drove  back  to  the  house  on 
Piccadilly  Terrace.  A  light  low-lying  mist  softened  the 
outlines  of  the  alley-ways  and  purified  the  filth  of  the 
street.  Overhead,  it  frayed  into  a  night  of  wonderful 
starshine,  where,  beyond  the  soiled  sordidness  of  the 
clamorous  city,  the  sky  spread  a  web  of  diamonds  and 
sifted  gold  dust. 

While  the  wheels  rattled  onward,  Gordon's  white 
whimsical  face,  lifted  to  those  presences  above  the  smoky: 
roofs,  gradually  lost  its  bitter  glaze  and  expressed  a 
curious  wistfulness — a  vague,  appealing  weariness  and 
speculation. 

"Matter  is  eternal,"  he  reflected,  "always  changing, 
but  reproduced  and  eternal.  May  not  mind  be  also  ?  Is 
its  inner  spark  celestial?  Or,  like  the  cells  that  pro-" 
duce  it,  is  it  a  creature  of  the  mold,  doomed  to  ex- 
tinction with  the  brain,  sinking  as  the  candle-flame 
perishes  when  the  wick  falls?  I  remember  when  I 
viewed  th^  planets  through  Herschel's  telescope  and 
saw  all  at  once  that  they  were  worlds.  What  has  eter- 
nity to  do  with  the  congregated  cosmic  dust  we  call 
mankind?  What  are  our  little  passions  and  resent- 
ments before  the  least  of  those  stars  ?" 

His  gaze  and  his  thought  fell  from  the  sky. 

Had  he  any  right  to  the  stubborn  pride  which  would 


THE   CASTAWAY  123 

not  bemean  itself  by  self-defense?  Would  his  own  si- 
lence not  abet  the  calculating  hatred  of  Lady  NoeFs  and 
add  to  that  monstrous  estrangement  that  was  steadily 
carrying  his  soul  further  and  further  from  the  soul  of 
Annabel  ?  The  question  of  whether  his  wife  believed  or 
disbelieved  aside^  was  he  justified  in  such  a  course  now  ? 
A  softer  feeling  took  possession  of  him.  Appearances 
had  been  against  him.  To  speak  could  make  the  mat- 
ter no  worse  for  Lady  Caroline.  He  would  go  to  Anna- 
bel and  assure  her  of  the  truth.  Perhaps  even  out  of 
such  a  catastrophe  as  to-night'p  might  arise  a  truer  and 
a  nearer  confidence. 

He  threw  off  his  great-coat  in  the  empty  hall  and 
ascended  the  stair.  The  door  of  the  chamber  where 
sat  the  little  white  bed  was  open.  He  went  in.  The 
lamp  still  shed  its  radiance  on  the  pillow,  but  the  tiny 
fragrant  mould  where  a  baby  head  had  lain,  now  held 
only  a  note,  bearing  Gordon's  name. 

With  a  puzzled  look  he  tore  it  open. 

A  white  anguish  spread  over  his  features.  A  cry 
broke  from  his  lips.  He  flung  wide  the  door  of  his 
wife's  room — ^it  was  empty.  He  ran  down  the  stair, 
where  the  footman  met  him,  turning  a  wondering  face 
to  his  question. 

"My  lady  went  out  with  Lady  Noel,  my  lord,"  Eush- 
ton  answered,  "and  took  the  baby  with  her.  Sir  Ralph 
came  for  them  a  half -hour  ago.  Here  is  a  letter  he  left 
for  your  lordship." 

Gordon  took  it  mechanically  and  read  the  few  curt 
lines  that  burned  into  his  sight  like  points  of  pain.  It 
was  the  end,  then !  Annabel  had  gone,  not  to  return — 
gone  with  only  a  hastily  pencilled  note  for  farewell^ 


124  THE    CASTAWAY 

laid  with  refinement  of  cruelty  on  his  baby^s  pillow! 
That,  and  these  blunt,  peremptory  lines  of  her  father's 
menace ! 

He  found  himself  at  length  in  the  library,  feeling 
his  way  blindly  to  his  chair.  What  to  do  ?  Could  there 
be  reconciliation?  Could  she,  with  her  cold  prudent 
resolve,  her  fixed  principles  squared  mathematically,  her 
starched  life  which  counted  even  forgiveness  a  Christ- 
like sin,  retract  a  step  of  such  moment?  He  told  him- 
self it  was  not  to  be  hoped  for;  her  pride  would  make 
her  decision  irrevocable. 

What  then?  To  pursue?  Invoke  the  law  to  restore 
his  child?  Plunge  into  publicity  to  set  right  his  own 
name  ?  When  had  he  cared  for  reputation  in  the  world's 
eyes !  Bare  her  father's  threat  ?  Drag  his  wife's  name 
and  his  own  in  the  dust  and  infamy  of  the  courts,  and 
bare  the  festering  sore  of  his  heart  to  the  world  ?  Dare  it, 
and  shut  the  gate  of  society  on  another  woman,  too, 
whose  punishment  already  would  be  more  than  she  could 
bear?  Most  of  all,  cloud  his  daughter's  young  years 
with  a  lasting  stain  ? 

He  rose  and  paced  the  floor,  his  step  halting,  fight- 
ing out  the  struggle.  Once  he  sat  down  and  wrote, 
scarce  seeing  the  lines  his  pen  traced — ^and  rose  and 
paced  the  floor  again.  He  took  the  black  phial  from 
its  drawer,  but  put  it  back.  There  was  something  in 
him  which  in  this  fierce  crisis  disdained  to  blunt  the 
pain. 

After  a  while  he  left  the  library  and  went  slowly 
Tip  the  stair  to  the  little  carved  white  bed.  He  sank 
into  a  chair  and  hid  his  face  in  his  folded  arms.  The 
agony  of  childlessness  came  down  on  him.     Home! 


THE   CASTAWAY  125 

A  year  ago  how  fondly  he  had  desired^  it  I    Yet  it  had 
become  the  winding-sheet  of  his  heart ! 

Mrs.  Clermont  saw  him  sitting  there  as  she  passed 
the  door.  By  Lady  Noel's  command,  she  had  waited 
to  pack  some  smaller  articles,  and  was  now  ready  for 
departure. 

On  the  lower  floor  she  entered  the  library  for  a  last 
snrvey.  Some  loose  sheets  of  paper  were  scattered  on 
the  desk,  the  ink  scarce  yet  dry  on  them.  Laying  them 
together  she  slowly  deciphered  the  tense,  uneven  hand- 
writing. The  lines  had  been  dragged  from  the  deeps 
of  Gordon's  despairing,  from  his  pent  grief  that  found 
its  natural  vent  in  verse.  Was  it  what  it  seemed — his 
heart's  final  word  to  Annabel  ?  Or  rather  was  it  a  last 
yearning  call  to  the  woman  he  had  dreamed  her  to  be — 
an  adieu  to  his  lost  ideal  of  her  ? 

Mrs.  Clermont's  eyes  gloated.  Two  spots  of  dull 
vermilion  grew  in  her  sallow  cheeks.  Her  hands  shook 
with  the  delight  of  an  inspiration.  Bending  over  the 
table  she  muttered  the  written  lines : 

*'Fare  thee  well!  and  if  forever. 
Still  forever,  fare  thee  well — ** 

How  carefully  she  had  gathered  them  all  along—* 
these  garish  strands  of  scandal  which  had  come  to  hefi 
hands !  How  deftly  her  fingers  had  cast  them  here  and 
there  in  the  woof  of  dislike  the  great  loom  of  London 
had  been  weaving!  This  was  a  thread  of  bright  red 
for  her  to  use.  What  if  the  poem  were  printed — now, 
now,  with  the  first  rumor  of  the  separation  ?  She  could 
fancy  what  would  be  the  world's  verdict  on  such  an  ad- 


126  THE    CASTAWAY 

dress,  penned  in  the  first  hour  of  his  bereavement,  and 
offered  to  the  public  ostensibly  by  his  own  hand.  Pub- 
licity would  be  just  the  note  to  make  the  whole  strain 
ring  false.  It  would  recoil  upon  him  in  open  disap- 
proval and  contempt!  It  would  rouse  new  voices  in 
the  clarion-tongued  clamor  of  abuse  that  her  jubilant 
ear  had  heard  swelling  through  the  past  year — forge  a 
new  link  in  the  chain  that  would  bind  him  to  disgrace, 
the  disgrace  she  believed  he  had  had  share  in  heaping 
upon  her  niece ! 

The  mainspring  of  the  woman's  hatred  leaped.  The 
world  had  coupled  their  names  long  ago,  when  the  girl 
had  first  stolen  away  from  the  dreary  Godwin  house  ta 
the  glamour  and  allurements  of  Drury  Lane !  And  the 
world  no  doubt  told  the  truth.  If  she  could  help  to  ruin 
him,  line  for  line,  name  and  fame — as  he  had  ruined 
Jane  Clermont! 

In  her  vision  rose  the  stooped  figure  of  William  God- 
win, Jane's  foster-father.  He  hated  Gordon,  she  knew: 
— and  he  had  a  connection  with  the  Courier,  the  bitter- 
est of  them  all. 

Fletcher  was  in  the  lower  hall  as  Mrs.  Clermont* 
passed  out  the  street  door.  He  knew  the  catastrophe 
that  had  befallen.  Now  his  honest  old  eyes  were  full  of 
grief  and  perplexity. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  he  ascended  to  his 
master's  room.  Gordon  had  thrown  off  his  clothing  and 
was  stretched  on  the  bed.    He  was  asleep. 

As  the  grizzled  valet's  eyes  rested  on  the  recumbent 
figure,  he  could  see  that  one  foot — ^the  lame  one — was 
uncovered.  Through  all  the  years  of  his  service,  he  had 
never  seen  the  member  which  Gordon's  sensitiveness 


THE   CASTAWAY  127 

concealed.    He  had  often  wondered  ciwiously  what  was 
the  nature  of  the  deformity.    How  did  it  look  ? 

Fletcher  turned  away,  took  a  counterpane  from  a 
chair  and  with  face  averted,  drew  it  over  the  uncovered 
foot.  Then  he  shaded  the  candle  and  went  out,  and  as 
he  went,  a  tear  splashed  down  his  seamed  and  weather- 
beaten  cheek. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  STOEM 

Over  the  great,  crow-footed  face  of  London,  full  of 
^tragedies,  a  heavy  fog  had  fallen.  Dismal  and  murky, 
it  lay  like  a  bodiless  incubus,  shutting  out  the  shining 
«un  and  the  sweet  smells  of  spring  and  showers.  To 
Gordon,  in  the  house  on  Piccadilly  Terrace,  the  color- 
less dun  had  seemed  to  reflect  his  own  feelings.  He  was 
numbed.  His  mind  was  stumbling  through  wastes  of 
dumb  protest. 

The  links  of  Mrs.  Clermont's  forging  had  held.  The 
story  of  his  wife's  flight  which  the  Courier  had  dis- 
played on  its  front  page  had  been  a  masterpiece  of  dark 
hints  and  veiled  insinuations.  To  Gordon,  who  had 
read  it  with  aching  eyeballs,  it  had  seemed  printed  in 
monstrous  symbols  of  flame. 

It  was  to  prove  the  opening  note  of  a  chorus  whose 
vicious  strength  he  had  not  comprehended  till  the  fol- 
lowing day,  when  the  avalanche  of  abuse  broke  over  him 
with  the  morning  newspapers.  Every  personal  grudge, 
every  pygmean  hater  of  success,  every  cowering  enmity 
that  had  sickened  under  his  splendor  had  roused.  He 
shut  himself  in  the  library,  telling  Fletcher  he  was  at 
home  to  no  one,  and  read  grimly  the  charges  they  pre- 

(128) 


THE   CASTAWAY  129 

f erred:  he  had  carried  his  unprincipled  profligacy  into 
his  home  and  ensconced  beneath  his  own  roof  a  Dniry 
Lane  inamorata;  he  had  persecuted  his  wife  with  in- 
human cruelties,  denied  her  the  offices  of  religion,  fired 
pistols  in  her  bedroom  to  frighten  her  while  she  slept — ' 
these  were  the  lightest  of  their  accusations. 

Gordon^s  mind,  racing  over  the  pages,  was  catching 
glimpses  of  heterogeneous  elements  which  blended  in 
a  dim,  dread  futurity.  He  saw  suddenly  the  inertia 
of  Annabel's  passive  correctness — saw  why  his  own 
name,  with  its  eccentric  dazzle,  had  stood  forth  blackly 
against  her  even  ways,  her  spotless,  conventional  pure- 
ness.  The  mute  contrast  had  always  been  there,  and  he 
had  suffered  accordingly.  To  the  world  she  stood  a 
martyr — ^a  stony  pillar,  once  a  woman,  who  had  looked 
back  to  catch  some  lurid  fume  from  doomed  cities  sink- 
ing under  Dead  Sea  waters. 

Could  the  great  world  credit  these  monstrous  calum- 
nies? Might  the  reiterate  malice  of  the  public  prints 
infect  his  nearer  acquaintances — those  at  whose  tables 
he  had  sat  almost  weekly,  the  cliques  of  the  clubs,  the 
gay  set  at  Almack's,  the  circle  of  Melbourne  House? 

He  drew  a  sharp  breath,  for  he  thought  of  William 
Lamb,  heir  to  the  Melbourne  title,  from  whom  he  had 
daily  expected  a  cartel.  He  would  leave  no  path  of  re- 
venge untrod;  nor  would  Lady  Caroline.  Could  their 
disassociate  hatred  envenom  even  the  few  for  whose 
opinion  he  cared? 

The  Courier  had  reserved  its  bitterest  attack.  On  the 
second  day  it  published  the  stanzas  entitled  "Fare  Thee 
Well,''  signed  by  Gordon's  name.  He  saw  them  with 
a  strange  sensation,  his  mind  grasping  for  the  cords  he 


130  THE   CASTAWAY 

felt  enmeshing  him,  his  eyes  fully  opened  now  to  the 
devilish  ingenuity  of  his  persecution. 

But  he  himself  stood  appalled  at  the  deadly  effect  of 
this  attack.  Innuendo  was  thrown  aside ;  invective  took 
its  place.  Paragraph,  pamphlet  and  caricature  held  the 
lines  up  to  odium.  The  hypocrisy  of  a  profligate!  A 
cheap  insincere  appeal  to  mawkish  sympathy !  A  taste- 
less vulgar  parade  of  a  poseur  strumming  his  heart- 
strings on  the  highway ! 

It  came  to  Gordon  with  a  start  that  during  the  past 
forty-eight  hours  he  had  forgotten  his  mail.  He  rang 
the  bell  and  asked  for  his  letters. 

"There  are  none,  my  lord.'' 

No  letters  ?  And  daily  for  a  year  his  table  had  been 
deluged  with  tinted  and  perfumed  billets  crested  and 
sealed  with  signets  of  great  houses.    No  letters ! 

"Who  has  called  to-day  ?'' 

Fletcher^s  honest  eyes  could  scarcely  meet  his  master's. 
"Mr.  Hobhouse  called  this  morning,  and  Mr.  Dallas  this 
afternoon.'' 

"That  is  all?" 

'TTes,  your  lordship." 

Gordon  went  to  the  fireplace  and  stared  down  dazedly 
into  the  embers.  He  had  been  a  santon ;  now  he  was  an 
Ishmaelite,  a  mark  for  the  thrust  of  every  scurrillous 
poetaster  who  wielded  a  pen — a  chartered  Blue-Beard — 
another  Mirabeau  whom  the  feudalists  discovered  to  be 
a  monster!  The  world  had  learned  with  pleasure  that 
he  was  a  wretch.  Tom  Moore  was  in  Ireland,  Sheridan 
dead.  Of  all  he  knew,  only  two  rallied  to  his  support : 
Hobhouse,  the  sturdy,  undemonstrative,  likable  com- 
panion of  his  early  travels,  and — Dallas ! 


THE   CASTAWAY  131 

Gordon  laughed  bitterly.  He  had  been  London's 
favorite.  Now,  without  justice  or  reason,  it  covered 
him  with  obloquy  and  went  by  on  the  other  side. 

There  had  followed  days  and  nights  of  mental  agony, 
of  inner  crying-out  for  reprisal — ^hours  of  fierce  longing 
for  his  child,  when  he  had  sought  relief  in  walking  un- 
frequented streets  from  dark  to  dawn,  in  desultory  com- 
position, more  often  in  the  black  bottle  that  lay  in  the 
library  drawer.  Meager  news  had  reached  his  sister, 
and  a  brave,  true  message  from  her  was  the  only  cooling 
dew  that  fell  into  his  fiery  Sahara  of  suffering.  A 
packet  left  by  a  messenger  roused  him  to  a  white  fury. 
It  was  from  Sir  Samuel  Eomilly,  the  solicitor  under 
his  retainer.  Sir  Samuel  had  reversed  his  allegiance. 
His  curt  note  inclosed  a  draft  of  separation  proposed 
by  Sir  Ealph  Milbanke,  and  though  couched  in  judicial 
phrases,  voiced  a  threat  unmistakable. 

Almost  a  round  of  the  clock  Gordon  sat  with  this 
paper  before  him,  his  meals  untasted.  His  wife  at  that 
moment  was  with  Ada — ^his  child  and  hers! — at  her 
father's  house  in  Seaham.  She  had  read  the  attacks- 
knew  their  falseness — ^knew  and  would  not  deny.  Now 
he  knew  why.  What  she  wanted  was  written  in  that 
document :  freedom  and  her  daughter.  She  would  en- 
gulf him  in  calumny  only  so  the  world  would  justify 
her  in  her  self-righteous  desertion.  And  lest  he  put 
it  to  the  test,  lest  he  refuse  to  be  condemned  unheard 
and  demand  the  arbitrament  of  an  open  though  pre- 
judiced tribunal,  she  threatened  him  with  what  further 
veiled  accusations  he  could  not  imagine.  Good  God! 
Was  there  anything  more  to  accuse  him  of  ?  Better  any 


132  THE   CASTAWAY 

appeal  lo  publicity  now  Ih'an  this  step  whicH  shut  him 
from  Ada  I 

Suppose  he  made  this  appeal.  There  was  no  justice 
in  public  opinion.  In  his  case,  it  was  already  poisoned. 
Already  it  dubbed  him  a  Nero,  a  Caligula,  a  Eichard 
Third !  Add  to  the  present  outcry  new  and  more  terri- 
ble charges — ^the  formless  insinuations  of  Sir  Kalph — 
and  what  might  not  its  verdict  be  ?  It  would  justify  his 
wife,  applaud  the  act  which  robbed  him  of  his  child! 
And  these  dark  indictments,  though  false,  would  be 
no  less  an  evil  legacy  for  that  daughter  whom  he  loved 
with  every  fiber  of  his  being. 

To  consent  to  lose  Ada  forever — or  to  risk  both  her 
loss  and  her  blight.  To  battle,  and  jeopardize  her  life's 
happiness  perhaps — or  to  yield  and  give  tacit  admission 
to  the  worst  the  world  said  of  him,  her  father ! 

Night  fell.  At  last  he  stirred  and  his  square  shoul- 
ders set.  "To  wait,^'  he  said — "to  wait  and  be  patient. 
That  is  all  that  is  left.  Whatever  I  must  do,  the  world 
shall  not  see  me  cringe.  The  celebrity  I  have  wrung 
from  it  has  been  in  the  teeth  of  all  opinions  and  pre- 
judices.   I  will  show  no  white  feather  now !" 

He  laid  the  document  aside,  rose  and  looked  in  the 
glass.  His  face  was  haggard,  worn ;  there  were  listless 
lines  under  his  eyes.  He  summoned  Fletcher  and 
dressed  with  all  his  old  scrupulousness — such  a  cos- 
tume as  he  had  worn  the  afternoon  he  had  waked  to 
fame.  With  a  thought,  perhaps,  of  that  day,  he  drew  a 
carnation  through  his  buttonhole.  Then  he  left  the 
house  and  turned  his  steps  toward  Drury  Lane. 

The  fog  was  gone,  the  air  lay  warm  and  pleasant, 
and   a  waxing  moon  shamed  the   street  lamps.     He 


THE   CASTAWAY  133 

passed  down  St.  James  Street,  and  came  opposite 
White's  Club.  He  had  no  thought  of  entering.  Lord 
Petersham  descended  the  steps  as  he  approached,  his 
dress  exquisite,  his  walking-stick  held  daintily  between 
thumb  and  forefinger  like  a  pinch  of  snuff.  The  fop's 
eyes  met  Gordon's  in  a  blank  stare. 

A  group  of  faces  showed  in  the  bow-window  and  for 
an  instant  Gordon  hesitated,  the  old  perverse  spirit 
tempting  him  to  enter,  but  he  resisted  it. 

The  first  act  was  on  when  he  reached  Drury  Lane 
Theater,  and  the  lobby  was  empty  save  for  the  usual 
loungers  and  lackeys.  The  doors  of  the  pit  were  open 
and  he  stood  behind  the  rustling  colors  of  Fops'  Alley. 
He  scanned  the  house  curiously,  himself  unobserved, 
noting  many  a  familiar  face  in  the  boxes. 

Night  after  night  the  pit  had  roused  to  the  veteran 
actor  Kean.  Night  after  night.  Fops'  Alley  had  fur- 
nished its  quota  of  applause  for  a  far  smaller  part, 
played  with  grace  and  sprightliness — ^by  Jane  Ckr- 
mont,  the  favorite  of  the  greenroom.  Her  first  entrance 
formed  a  finish  to  the  act  now  drawing  to  a  close.  To 
Gordon's  overwrought  senses  to-night  there  seemed 
some  strange  tenseness  in  the  air.  Here  and  there  heads 
drew  together  whispering.     The  boxes  were  too  quiet. 

As  the  final  tableau  arranged  itself,  and  Jane  ad- 
vanced slowly  from  the  wings,  there  was  none  of  the 
usual  signs  of  approval.  Instead  a  disturbed  shuffle 
made  itself  heard.  She  began  her  lines  smiling.  An 
ugly  murmur  overran  the  pit,  and  she  faltered. 

Instantly  a  man's  form  leaned  over  the  edge  of  a 
box  and  hissed.  The  watcher,  staring  from  the  shadow 
of  the  lobby,  recognized  him  with  a  quick  stab  of  sig- 


134:  THE   CASTAWAYi 

nificance — ^it  was  William  Lamb.  The  action  seemed 
a  concerted  signal.  Some  one  laughed.  An  undulate 
hiss  swept  over  the  house  like  a  nest  of  serpents.  Even 
some  of  the  boxes  swelled  its  volume. 

Jane  shrank,  looking  frightenedly  about  her,  bewil- 
dered, her  hands  clutching  her  gown;  for  the  pit  was 
on  its  legs  now,  and  epithets  were  hurled  at  the  stage. 
"Crede  Gordon  T  came  the  derisive  shout — a  cry  taken 
up  with  groans  and  catcalls — and  a  walking-stick  clat- 
tered across  the  footlights.  The  manager  rushed  upon 
the  stage  and  the  heavy  curtain  began  to  descend. 

"The  baggage!'^  said  a  voice  near  Gordon  with  a 
coarse  laugh.  "It's  the  one  they  say  he  had  in  his  house 
when  his  wife  left  him.    Serves  her  right !" 

Gordon's  breath  caught  in  his  throat.  So  this  had 
been  William  Lamb's  way !  Not  an  appeal  to  the  court 
of  ten  paces — an  assassin  in  the  dark  with  a  bloodless 
weapon  to  slay  him  in  the  world's  esteem ! 

He  heard  the  din  rising  from  the  whole  house,  as  he 
crossed  the  lobby  and  strode  down  the  passageway  lead- 
ing to  the  greenroom. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

GORDON  STANDS  AT  BAY 

Jane  Clermont  had  reached  it  before  him,  her  eyes 
a  storm  of  anger.  She  tore  the  silver  ornaments  from 
her  costume,  and  dashed  them  at  the  feet  of  the  man- 
ager.   "How  dare  they !    How  dare  they !"  she  flamed. 

*T)on^t  talk!^'  he  snapped.  "I  must  go  on  with  the 
play  or  they  will  be  in  here  in  five  minutes.  Don't 
wait  to  change  your  dress — ^go!  go,  I  tell  you!  Do 
you  think  I  want  my  theater  tumbled  about  my  ears  ?'* 

He  cursed  as  the  dulled  uproar  came  from  beyond 
the  dropped  curtain. 

Curious  eyes  had  turned  to  Gordon,  faces  zestful, 
relishing,  as  he  paused  in  the  doorway.  The  girl  had 
not  seen  him.  But  at  that  moment  hurried  steps  came 
down  the  passage — a  youth  darted  past  Gordon  and 
threw  an  arm  about  her. 

"Jane!"  he  cried,  "we  were  there — Mary  and  I — 
we  saw  it  all !    It  is  infamous  V 

A  flash  of  instant  recollection  deepened  the  vivid 
fire  in  Gordon's  look  as  it  rested  on  the  boyish,  beard- 
less figure,  whose  quaint  dress  and  roving  eyes,  bright 
and  wild  like  a  deer's,  seemed  as  incongruous  in  that 
circle  of  paint  and  tinsel  as  in  the  squalor  of  the  Fleet 
Prison.  Shelley  went  on  rapidly  through  Jane's  in- 
coherent words: 

(135) 


136  THE    CASTAWAY 

''Jane,  listen!  We're  not  poor  now.  We  came  to 
the  play  to-night  to  tell  you  the  news.  Old  Sir  Bysshe, 
my  grandfather,  is  dead  and  the  entail  comes  to  me. 
We  sail  for  the  continent  at  daybreak.  Mary  is  wait- 
ing in  the  carriage.  Come  with  us,  Jane,  and  let  Eng- 
land go." 

On  the  manager's  face  drops  of  perspiration  had 
•started.  "Aye,  go !"  he  foamed.  "The  quicker  the  bet- 
ter!   His  lordship  is  waiting — " 

He  shrank  back,  the  sneer  throttled  on  his  lips,  for 
ihere  was  that  in  Gordon's  colorless  features,  his  spark- 
ling eyes,  at  which  the  man's  tongue  clove  to  the  roof 
of  his  mouth. 

"George  Gordon!"  exclaimed  Shelley  under  his 
l)reath. 

Jane's  glance  had  followed  his  and  she  saw  the  figure 
.at  the  door  for  the  first  time,  as  Gordon  spoke : 

"Cowards !"  he  said.  "Cowards  I" — a  shrivelling  rage 
was  making  his  speech  thick.  "A  thousand  against  one ! 
It  is  I  they  hate,  and  they  vent  their  hatred  of  me 
upon  a  woman!  Such  is  the  chivalry  of  this  puddle 
of  water- worms  they  call  London !" 

A  sudden  admiration  swept  the  girl.  "You  dare 
ihem,  too !  You  are  not  afraid  1"  She  turned  on  the 
manager  passionately.  "I  wouldn't  play  for  them  again 
for  all  London !  I  despise  you  all,  in  front  of  the  cur- 
tain and  behind  it.  Liars — all  liars!  Come,  Bysshe, 
I  will  go  with  you!" 

Shelley  held  out  his  hand  to  Gordon  with  an  open, 
friendly,  "Good-by,  my  lord." 

Gordon  had  been  looking  at  him  steadily — ^looking, 
but  with  a  strange  irrelevance,  seeing  really  himself. 


THE   CASTAWAY  137 

standing  in  his  own  room  at  a  long-a:go  dawn,  a  gob- 
let of  brandy  in  his  hand,  and  in  his  heart  a  deter- 
mination rising  anew — a  wish  to  be  like  the  youth 
^hose  clasp  now  met  his  own,  with  a  like  serenity  and 
purpose,  a  soul  to  which  fame  meant  least,  truth  and 
right  all!  In  that  year  of  dazzle  before  his  marriage 
he  had  quenched  that  determination.  He  had  wor- 
shiped the  Great  Beast.  He  had  lived  the  world's  life 
and  played  its  games  and  accepted  its  awards.  Now 
he  suffered  its  punishments ! 

Malicious  faces  were  peering  in  at  the  street  entrance. 
The  pit  had  overflowed  into  the  lobby,  the  lobby  into 
the  street,  and  the  numbers  swelled  from  the  hordes 
of  the  pave  whose  jargon  banter  flew  back  and  forth. 
The  jeering  voices  came  plainly  down  the  brick  passage- 
way. 

*'I  will  see  you  to  your  carriage,'^  said  Gordon,  and 
went  out  with  them. 

They  passed  to  the  vehicle — ^from  which  Mary  Shel- 
ley's frightened  face  looked  out — ^through  a  vociferous 
human  lane,  that  groaned  and  whistled  in  gusto. 

^'There's  the  jade ;  an'  'er  lordship  with  'er,  too !" 

'^hich  is  'im?" 

"W'y,  'im  with  the  leg." 

At  the  gibe  which  followed  Gordon  smiled  mirth- 
lessly. This  blind  rabble,  egged  on  by  hatred  that  uti-'* 
lized  for  its  ends  the  crass  dislike  of  the  scum  for  the 
refined — what  was  it  to  him  ?    He  knew  its  masters ! 

As  Jane  took  her  seat  the  jeers  redoubled.  Across 
the  heads  between  him  and  the  surging  entrance  of  the 
theater  he  saw  the  sneering,  heavy-lidded  face  of  Wil- 
liam Lamb.    The  sight  roused  the  truculent  demon  of 


138  THE   CASTAWAY 

stubbornness  in  him.  With  a  flare  of  nnrecking  im- 
pertinence, and  a  racing  recollection  of  a  first  dinner  at 
Melbourne  House,  when  he  had  given  Lady  Caroline 
Lamb  such  a  blossom  from  his  coat,  Gordon  drew  the 
carnation  from  his  buttonhole  and  handed  it  to  Jane 
Clermont. 

The  crowd  had  looked  to  see  him  enter  with  the 
others;  now  as  the  vehicle  rolled  away,  leaving  him 
standing  alone,  the  clamor,  sharpened  by  his  nonchalant 
act  and  by  the  smile  which  they  could  not  translate, 
rose  more  derisive,  more  boldly  mixed  with  insult. 
They  were  overcoming  that  dull  inborn  fear  of  the  clod 
for  the  noble.  There  was  menace  in  what  they  said, 
a  foreshadowing  of  peril  that  might  have  fallen  but  for 
a  diversion. 

A  coach,  adroitly  handled,  whirled  up  to  the  kerb- 
stone, and  a  man  leaped  to  the  pavement.  Grordon  felt 
a  hand  touch  his  arm. 

"The  carriage,  my  lord,''  said  Fletcher. 

The  valet,  guessing  better  than  his  master,  had  fol- 
lowed him.  A  sense  of  the  dog-like  fidelity  of  the  old 
servitor  smote  Gordon  and  softened  the  bitter  smile  on 
his  lips.  Only  an  instant  he  hesitated  before  he  entered 
the  carriage,  and  in  that  instant  a  hand  grasped  at  the 
horses'  heads,  but  the  coachman's  whip  fell  and  the 
plunging  animals  made  an  aisle  through  which  the  ve- 
hicle, hissed  and  hooted,  rolled  in  safety. 

As  it  drew  away,  a  young  man,  dark  and  oriental 
looking,  came  through  the  crowd,  staring  wonderingly 
at  the  excitement  He  was  one  who  more  than  once 
on  that  spot  had  watched  Gordon's  approaching  car- 
riage with  black  envy  and  jealousy — ^the  same  who  had 


THE   CASTAWAY  139 

stood  with*  Jane  Clermont  on  the  night  Dr.  Cassidy^s 
suspicious  gaze  had  made  him  draw  closer  into  the 
shadow  of  the  doorway.  At  the  names  the  crowd 
coupled,  he  started,  paled  and  hurried  into  the  stage- 
entrance. 

In  an  instant  he  emerged,  breathing  hard,  heard  the 
jeers  of  the  crowd  directed  at  the  moving  carriage,  and, 
.his  fingers  clenching,  rushed  into  the  street  and  gazed 
after  it.  It  turned  into  Long  Acre,  going  toward  Picca- 
dilly. He  plunged  into  the  network  of  side  streets  op- 
posite and  hastened  rapidly  in  the  direction  it  had 
taken. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  house  on  Piccadilly  Terrace,  and 
he  outstripped  the  coach.  From  the  shadow  he  saw  it 
stop,  saw  the  man  it  carried  dismount — alone. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  muttered.  "He  took  her  from 
the  theater — damn  him!    Where  has  he  left  her?" 

The  same  bitter  smile  with  which  he  had  faced  the 
clamor  outside  the  theater  was  on  Gordon's  white  face 
as  he  entered  the  house.  In  the  hall  he  opened  a  single 
note  of  invitation,  read  it  and  laughed. 

Eushton  met  him.  "Mr.  Dallas  is  in  the  library, 
your  lordship." 

Grordon  strode  into  the  room.  Dallas  saw  that  though 
he  was  smiling  oddly,  his  face  was  deeply  lined,  and^ 
his  eyes  were  glittering  like  those  of  a  man  with  a  fever. 

"George,"  cried  Dallas,  "I  was  bound  to  see  you! 
Why, — ^you  are  ill!" 

"Not  I,  Dallas.  I  have  been  to  Drury  Lane  to-night. 
All  society  was  there,  divorced  and  divorceable,  in- 
trigants and  Babylonians  of  quality.     Lady  Holland, 


140  THE   CASTAWAY 

like  a  hippopotamus  in  the  face,  and  William  LamH 
with  the  very  manner  of  the  ursine  sloth  V 

There  was  genuine  anxiety  in  Dallas'  tone.  "Come 
with  me  to  Stratford  for  a  few  days/'  he  besought. 
^^Come  now — ^to-night!" 

"Not  this  week,  old  friend.  I  have  social  engage- 
ments to  fill!"  Gordon  tossed  him  the  note  he  held. 
"See  I  Lady  Jersey,  the  loveliest  tyrant  that  shakes  the 
cap  and  hells  of  fashion's  fools! — ^the  despot  of  Al- 
mack's— the  patroness-in-chief  of  the  Dandy  Ball^  in- 
vites the  reprobate,  the  scapegrace,  to  that  sumptuous 
conclave!  She  dares  the  frown  and  risks  pollution! 
Would  you  have  me  disappoint  my  only  woman  apolo- 
gist in  London?  Shall  I  not  reward  such  unparagoned 
courage  with  the  presence  of  its  parlor  lion,  its  ball- 
room bard,  its  hot-pressed  darling?" 

He  laughed  wildly,  sardonically,  and  jerked  the  bell. 

"Fletcher,  a  bottle  of  brandy,"  he  commanded,  "and 
I  shall  not  want  you  again  to-night." 

The  valet  set  the  bottle  down  with  an  anxious  look 
at  his  master — a  half-appealing  one  toward  Dallas. 

As  the  door  closed,  Gordon,  sitting  on  the  table-edge, 
began  to  sing  with  perfect  coolness,  without  a  quaver 
in  the  metallic  voice: 


'The  Devil  returned  to  hell  by  two. 
And  he  stayed  at  home  till  five; 
He  dined  on  a  dowager  done  ragout 
And  a  peer  boiled  down  in  an  Irish  stew 

And,  quoth  he,  'I'll  take  a  drive! 
I  walked  this  morning,  I'll  ride  to-night—* 
In  darkness  my  children  take  delight — 
And  I'll  see  how  my  favorites  thrive!'" 


THE    CASTAWAY  141 

^TJaddie  !'^  Dallas'  cry  was  full  of  pity  and  en- 
treaty. "I  beg  of  you — stopT'  He  went  over  and 
touched  the  other's  arm. 

"Listen,  Dallas — 

"The  Devil  lie  lit  on  the  London  pave 
And  he  found  his  work  done  well. 
For  it  ran  so  red  from  the  slandered  dead 

That  it  blushed  like  the  waves  of  hell! 
Then  loudly  and  wildly  and  long  laughed  he — 
*Me thinks  they  have  here  little  need  of  me!"* 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

THE  BURNING  OF  AN  EFFIGY 

Beau  Bnimmell,  pattern  of  the  dandies,  stood  in  Al- 
mack's  Assembly  Eooms,  bowing  right  and  left  with 
the  languid  elegance  of  his  station.  The  night  before, 
in  play  at  the  Arg}4e,  he  had  lost  twenty  thousand 
pounds  at  macao,  but  what  mattered  that  to  the  czar 
of  fashion,  who  had  introduced  starch  into  neck-cloths 
and  had  his  top-boots  polished  with  champagne,  whose 
very  fob-design  was  a  thing  of  more  moment  in  Brookes' 
Club  than  the  fall  of  Bonaparte,  and  whose  loss  even  of 
the  regent's  favor  had  not  been  able  to  affect  his  reign. 
He  was  a  still  fool  that  ran  deep.  He  had  been  in 
debt  ever  since  a  prince's  whim  had  given  him  a  cor- 
netcy  in  the  Tenth  Hussars;  the  episode  now  meant  to 
him  only  another  ruined  Jew,  and  a  fresh  flight  for 
his  Kashmerian  butterfly  career. 

He  took  snuff  with  nonchalant  grace  from  a  buhl 
snuff-box, — ^he  had  one  for  each  day  in  the  year, — and 
touched  his  rouged  lips  with  a  lace  handkerchief  of 
royal  rose-point.  His  prestige  had  never  been  higher, 
nor  his  insolence  more  accurately  applied  than  on  this 
evening  of  the  last  of  the  Dandy  Balls. 

The  club  tables,  where  ordinarily  were  grouped  play- 
(143) 


THE   CASTAWAY  143 

ers  at  whist  and  hazard,  had  vanished ;  bjackets  holding 
glass  candelabra  were  distributed  along  the  walls,  and 
the  pink  shaded  glow  of  myriads  of  wax  tapers  was  re- 
flected from  mirrors  set  crosswise  in  every  angle  and 
surrounded  by  masses  of  flowers.  The  great  tapestried 
ball-room, — a  hundred  feet  in  length, — in  which  Ma- 
dame Catalani  had  given  her  famous  concerts  and  Kean 
his  readings  from  Shakespeare,  was  decorated  with 
gilt  columns,  pilasters,  and  classic  medallions  with 
candles  in  cut-glass  lusters.  A  string  orchestra  played 
behind  a  screen  of  palms  and  a  miniature  stage  had 
been  built  across  the  lower  end  of  the  room. 

Here  were  gathered  the  oligarchs  of  fashion  and  the 
tyrants  of  ton.  The  dandies — Pierrepont,  Alvanley, 
Petersham,  the  fop  lieutenants  and  poodle-loving  wor- 
shipers of  Brummell — with  gold  buckles  glittering  in 
their  starched  stocks,  and  brave  in  tight  German  trou- 
sers and  jewelled  eye-glasses,  preened  and  ogled  among 
soberer  wearers  of  greater  names  and  ladies  of  title, 
whose  glistening  shoulders  and  bare  arms  flashed  whitely 
through  the  shifting  stir  of  bright  colors. 

On  the  broad  stair,  under  the  chandeliers  of  crystal 
and  silver,  in  the  ball-room, — ^wherever  the  groups  and 
the  gossip  moved  that  evening,  one  name  was  on  every 
tongue.  The  series  of  tableaux  rehearsed  under  direction 
of  Lady  Heathcote,  and  the  new  quadrille  introduced 
from  Paris  by  Lady  Jersey,  the  features  of  the  evening, 
were  less  speculated  upon  than  was  George  Gordon. 
The  hissing  at  Drury  Lane  had  several  new  versions, 
and  there  were  more  sensational  stories  afloat.  It  was 
eaid  he  had  entered  Brookes'  Club  the  day  before,  where 
no  one  had  spoken  to  him ;  that  the  Horse  Guards  had 


144  -  THE    CASTAWAY 

had  to  be  sent  for  to  prevent  his  being  mobbed  in  Palace 
Yard  as  he  attempted  to  enter  the  House  of  Lords.  It 
was  even  confidently  asserted  that  a  motion  was  to  lie 
introduced  in  Parliament  to  suspend  him  from  his  priv- 
ileges as  a  peer. 

Lady  Jersey,  stately  in  black  velvet  and  creamy  lace, 
met  John  Hobhouse  on  the  stair. 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  but  I  have  called  every  day.  It  was  courageous 
of  you  to  send  him  the  invitation  for  to-night.  No 
other  patroness  would  have  dared." 

"I  only  wish  he  would  come!"  she  flashed  imperi- 
ously. "One  would  think  we  were  a  lot  of  New  Eng- 
land witch-hunters!  There  is  nothing  more  ridiculous 
than  society  in  one  of  its  seven-year  fits  of  morality. 
Scandals  are  around  us  every  day,  but  we  pay  no  heed 
iill  the  spasm  of  outraged  virtue  takes  us.  Then  we 
tpick  out  some  one  by  mere  caprice,  hiss  him,  cut  him — 
make  him  a  whipping-boy  to  be  lashed  from  our  doors. 
When  we  are  satisfied,  we  give  our  drastic  virtue  chloro- 
form and  put  it  to  sleep  for  another  seven  years !" 

Hobhouse  smiled  grimly  at  the  gleam  in  her  hazel 
eyes  as  she  passed  on  to  the  lower  room  where  the  quad- 
rille was  to  have  its  final  rehearsal.  Lady  Jersey's  was 
a  despotic  rule.  She  was  as  famous  for  her  diplomacy 
as  for  her  Sunday  parties.  More  than  one  debate  had 
been  postponed  in  Parliament  to  avoid  a  conflict  with 
one  of  her  dinners.  Gordon,  he  reflected,  could  have 
no  more  powerful  ally. 

He  ascended  to  the  ball-room,  where  the  tableaux 
were  oozing  patiently  on  with  transient  gushes  of  ap- 


THE    CASTAWAY  il45 

probation:  ''Solomon  and  the  Queen" of  Sheba/'  with 
Lady  Heathcote  as  the  queen;  ^Tamerlane  the  Great/* 
posed  by  a  giant  officer  of  the  foot-guards  in  a  suit  of 
chain-mail, — and  subjects  drawn  from  heathen  mjrthol- 

ogy- 

The  last  number,  a  monologue,  was  unnamed,  but 
word  had  gone  forth  that  the  performer  was  to  be  Lady 
Caroline  Lamb. 

Slowly  the  curtain  was  drawn  aside  and  a  breath  of 
applause  stirred  as  Lady  Caroline  was  revealed,  in  com- 
plete Greek  costume,  with  short  blue  skirt  and  round 
jacket,  its  bodice  cut  square  and  low  and  its  sleeves 
white  from  elbow  to  wrist.  In  that  congress  of  beauties, 
decked  in  the  stilted  conventions  of  Mayfaif  modistes, 
the  attire  had  a  touch  of  the  barbaric  which  suited  its 
wearer's  type — a  touch  accentuated  by  the  jade  beads 
about  her  throat  and  the  dagger  thrust  through  her 
girdle. 

The  fiddles  of  the  orchestra  had  begun  to  play,  as 
prelude,  the  music  of  the  Greek  love-song  Gordon  had 
written,  long  ago  made  popular  in  London  drawing- 
rooms,  and  "Maid-of  -  Athens !''  was  echoed  here  and 
there  from  the  floor. 

The  figure  on  the  stage  swept  a  slow  glance  about  her, 
her  cheeks  dark  and  red  from  some  under-excitement. 
She  waved  her  hand,  and  from  the  wings  came  a  pro- 
cession of  tiny  pages  dressed  as  imps,  all  in  red. 

A  murmur  of  wonder  broke  from  the  crowd.  Lady 
Caroline's  vagaries  were  well-known  and  her  wayward 
devisings  were  never  without  sensation. 

"What  foolery  of  Carols  can  this  be  ?'  queried  Brum- 


146  THE   CASTAWAY 

mell  to  Petersham  as  the  first  page  set  up  a  tripod  and 
the  second  placed  upon  it  a  huge  metal  salver. 

The  whole  room  was  rustling,  for  it  was  clear,  from 
the  open  surprise  of  the  committee,  that  this  was  a 
feature  not  on  the  program.  Those  in  the  rear  even 
stood  on  chairs  while  the  scarlet-hued  imps  grouped 
ahout  the  tripod  in  a  half-circle  open  toward  the  audi- 
ence. 

Lady  Caroline  clapped  her  hands  and  a  last  page  en- 
tered dressed  in  red  and  black  as  Mephistopheles,  car- 
rying aloft  on  a  wand  what  looked  like  a  gigantic  doll. 
The  wand  he  fitted  into  a  socket  in  the  salver,  and  the 
dangling  figure  that  swung  from  it,  turning  slowly,  re- 
vealed a  grotesque  image  of  George  Gordon. 

The  audience  gazed  at  the  effigy  with  its  clever  bur- 
lesque of  each  well-known  detail, — ^the  open  rolling  col- 
lar, the  short  brown  curls  pasted  on  the  mask,  the  car- 
nation in  its  buttonhole — startled  at  the  effrontery  of 
the  idea.  It  was  Brummell  who  gave  the  signal  by  an 
enthusiastic  Brava! 

Then  the  assemblage  broke  into  applause  and  laugh- 
ter that  ran  like  a  mounting  wave  across  the  flash  and 
glitter  of  the  ball-room,  thundering  down  the  refrain 
of  the  orchestra. 

The  applause  stilled  as  Lady  Caroline  raised  her 
hand,  and  recited,  in  a  voice  that  penetrated  to  the 
furthermost  corner: 


"Is  it  Guy  Fawkes  we  bring  with  his  stuffing  of  straw? 
No,  no!    For  Guy  Fawkes  paid  his  debt  to  the  law! 
But  the  cause  we  uphold  is  to  decency  owed, 
By  a  social  tribunal,  unmarked  by  the  code! 


THE    CASTAWAY  147 

Behold  here  a  poet — an  eloquent  thing 

Which  the  Drury  Lane  greenroom  applauded  its  king, 

Who  made  all  the  envious  dandies  despair 

By  the  cut  6t  his  cuffs  and  the  curl  of  his  hair." 

She  had  spoken  this  doggerel  with  elaborate  gestures 
toward  the  absurd  manikin,  her  eyes  gleaming  at  the 
applause  that  greeted  each  stanza.  Unsheathing  the 
dagger  at  her  girdle,  she  waved  it  with  a  look  of  lan- 
guishing that  made  new  laughter. 

"Who,  'tis  said,  when  a  fair  Maid-of-Athens  he  pressed, 
Swore  his  love  on  a  dagger-scratch  made  on  his  breast! 
And  when  they'd  have  drowned  the  poor  creature,  alack. 
Brought  gain  to  his  glory  by  slitting  the  sack!" 

John  Hobhouse  was  staring  indignantly,  unable  to 
control  his  anger.  A  note  of  triumph,  more  trenchant 
and  remorseless  than  her  raillery,  grew  into  Lady  Caro- 
line's tone: 

"His  deportment,  so  evilly  malapropos, 
At  last  sunk  him  far  every  circle  below, 
Till,  besmirched  by  the  mire  of  his  flagrant  disgrace, 
The  front  door  of  London  flew  shut  in  his  face. 

So  bum,  yellow  flame,  for  an  idol  dethroned! 
Burn,  burn  for  a  Gordon,  by  Muses  disowned! 
Burn,  burn!  while  about  thee  thy  imps  circle  fast. 
And  give  them  their  comrade,  recovered  at  last! " 

At  the  word  ^'burn,"  the  speaker  seized  a  candle  from 
a  sconce  and  touched  it  to  the  figure,  which  blazed 
brightly  up.  The  imp-pages  grasped  hands  and  began 
to  run  round  and  round  the  group.  At  the  weird  sight 
a  tumult  of  applause  went  up  from  the  whole  multi- 


148  THE    CASTAWAY 

inde,  which  clapped  and  stamped  and  hrava'd  itself 
hoarse. 

Suddenly  a  strange  thing  happened — ^unexpected, 
anomalous,  uncanny.  The  applause  hushed  as  though 
a  wet  blanket  had  been  thrown  over  it.  Faces  forsook 
the  stage.  The  pages  ceased  their  circling.  Women 
drew  sharp  tremulous  breaths  and  men  turned  eagerly 
in  their  places  to  see  a  man  advancing  into  the  assembly 
with  halting  step  and  with  a  face  pale  yet  brilliant,  like 
an  alabaster  vase  lighted  from  within. 

Some  subtle  magnetism  had  alwaj^s  hung  about 
George  Gordon,  that  had  made  him  the  center  of  any 
crowd.  'Now,  in  the  tension,  this  was  enormously  in- 
creased. His  sharply  chiselled,  patrician  features 
seemed  to  thrill  and  dilate,  and  his  eyes  sparlded  till 
they  could  scarce  be  looked  at.  A  hundred  in  that  room 
he  had  called  by  name ;  scores  he  had  dined  and  gamed 
with.  His  look,  ruthless,  yet  even,  seemed  to  single 
out  and  hold  each  one  of  these  speechless  and  staring, 
deaf  to  BrummelFs  sneer  through  the  quiet. 

Speech  came  from  Gordon's  lips,  controlled,  yet  vital 
with  subterraneous  passion — words  that  none  of  that 
shaken  audience  could  afterward  recall  save  in  part — 
hot  like  lava,  writhing,  pitiless,  falling  among  them 
like  a  flaying  lash  of  whip-cords: 

"Scribes  and  Pharisees,  hypocrites!  I  have  heard 
hyenas  and  jackals  in  the  ruins  of  Asia,  Albanian 
wolves  and  angry  Mussulmans !  Theirs  is  sweet  music 
beside  the  purr  of  England's  scandal-mongers.  I  have 
hated  your  cant,  despised  your  mediocrity  and  scoffed 
at  your  convention,  and  now,  lacking  the  dagger  and 
the  bowl, — when  deliberate  desolation  is  piled  upon  me. 


THE   CASTAWAY  149 

when  I  stand  alone  on  my  hearth  wifii  my  household 
gods  shivered  around  me, — ^you  gather  your  pomp  and 
rabblement  of  society  to  bait  me  V 

There  was  a  stir  at  the  door.  Lady  Jersey  had  en- 
tered, and  John  Hobhouse  sprang  to  her  side.  She  saw 
the  blazing  puppet  and  divined  instantly  the  cruel 
farce  that  had  been  enacted.  Her  indignation  leaped, 
but  he  caught  her  arm. 

"No,  no,''  he  said,  "it  is  too  late.'' 

The  stinging  sentences  went  on: 

"So  have  you  dealt  with  others,  those  whose  names 
'will  be  rung  in  England  when  your  forgotten  clay  has 
mixed  with  its  earth!  Let  them  be  gently  born  and 
gently  minded  as  they  may — as  gentle  as  Sheridan, 
whom  a  year  ago  you  toasted.  He  grew  old  and  you 
covered  him  with  the  ignominy  of  a  profligate,  aban- 
doned him  to  friendless  poverty  and  left  him  to  die 
like  a  wretched  beggar,  while  bailiffs  squabbled  over 
his  corpse !  What  mattered  to  him  the  crocodile  tears 
when  you  laid  him  yesterday  in  Westminster  Abbey? 
What  cared  he  for  your  four  noble  pall-bearers — a  duke, 
a  pair  of  earls  and  a  Lord  Bishop  of  London?  Did  it 
lighten  his  last  misery  that  you  followed  him  there — 
two  royal  highnesses,  marquises,  viscounts,  a  lord  mayor 
^and  a  regiment  of  right-honorables  ?  Scribes  and  Phari- 
sees, hypocrites! 

"So  you  dealt  with  Shelley — ^the  youth  whose  songs 
you  would  not  hear !  You  hounded  him,  expelled  him 
from  his  university,  robbed  him  of  his  father  and  his 
peace,  and  drove  him  like  a  moral  leper  from  among 
you !  You  write  no  pamphlets  in  verse — nor  read  them 
if  a  canon  frowns!    You  sit  in  your  pews  on  Sunday 


150:  THE   CASTA WAYi 

and  thank  Fate  that  you  are  not  as  Percy  Bysshe  Shel- 
ley, the  outcast!  God!  He  sits  so  near  that  Heaven 
your  priests  prate  of  that  he  hears  the  seraphs  sing ! 

"And  do  you  think  now  to  break  me  on  your  paltry 
wheel  ?  You  made  me,  without  my  search,  a  species  of 
pagod.  In  the  caprice  of  your  pleasure,  you  throw  down 
the  idol  from  its  pedestal.  But  it  is  not  shattered; 
I  have  neither  loved  nor  feared  you!  Henceforth  I 
will  not  eat  with  you,  drink  with  you,  nor  pray  with 
you.  Attribute  to  me  every  phase  of  your  vileness! 
Charge  me  with  profligacy  and  madness !  Make  of  my 
career  only  a  washed  fragment  in  the  hartshorn  of  your 
dislike !  Drive  your  red-hot  plowshares,  but  they  shall 
not  be  for  me !  May  my  bones  never  rest  in  an  English 
grave,  nor  my  body  feed  its  worms !" 

The  livid  sentences  fell  quivering,  heavy  with  virile 
emphasis,  like  the  defiance  of  some  scorned  augur,  in- 
voking the  Furies  in  the  midnight  of  Eome. 

Hardly  a  breath  or  movement  had  come  from  those 
who  heard.  They  seemed  struck  with  stupor  at  the 
spectacle  of  this  fiery  drama  of  feeling.  Lady  Caroline 
was  still  standing,  the  center  of  the  group  of  imp-pages, 
and  above  her  hovered  a  slate-colored  cloud,  the  smoke 
from  the  effigy  crumbling  into  shapeless  ashes.  Her 
gaze  was  on  the  speaker ;  her  teeth  clenched ;  the  mock- 
ery of  her  face  merged  into  something  apprehensive 
and  terror-smitten. 

In  the  same  strained  silence,  looking  neither  to  right 
nor  left,  Gordon  passed  to  the  entrance.  Hobhouse 
met  him  half-way  and  turned  with  him  to  Lady  Jersey. 
Gordon  bent  and  kissed  her  hand,  and  as  he  went  slowly 
down  the  stair.  Lady  Jersey's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 


THE   CASTAWAY  151 

The  spell  was  broken  by  a  cry  from  the  stage  and 
Lady  Heatheote^s  scream.  Lady  Caroline  had  swayed 
and  fallen.  The  blade  of  the  dagger  which  she  still 
held  had  slipped  against  her  breast  as  she  fell,  and  blood 
followed  the  slight  cut.  The  crowd  surged  forward  in 
excitement  and  relaxation,  while  waves  of  lively  orches- 
tral music  rolled  over  the  confusion,  through  which 
the  crumpled  figure  was  carried  to  a  dressing-room. 

Only  those  near  by  saw  the  dagger  cut,  but  almost 
before  Gordon  had  emerged  into  the  night  a  strange 
rumor  was  running  through  the  assembly.  It  grew 
in  volume  through  the  after-quadrille  and  reached  the 
street. 

"Caroline  Lamb  has  tried  to  stab  herself/'  the  whisper 
said. 


CHAPTEE  XX 


THE  EXILE 


Fletcher  was  watching  anxiously  for  his  master's 
return  that  night.  When  he  entered,  there  were  new 
lines  in  his  face — ^the  stigmata  of  some  abrupt  and  fear- 
ful mental  recoil. 

"Order  the  coach  to  be  got  ready  at  once/'  Gordon 
directed,  "and  pack  my  portmanteau." 

He  went  heavily  into  the  library,  gazing  at  the  book- 
shelves with  eyes  listless  and  dull.  Presently,  with  the 
same  nerveless  movements,  he  unlocked  a  drawer  and 
took  therefrom  several  small  articles:  a  lock  of  Ada's 
hair — a  little  copy  of  "Borneo  and  Juliet"  given  him 
years  before  by  his  sister — and  the  black  bottle.  He 
thrust  these  into  his  great-coat  pocket. 

Amid  the  litter  of  papers  on  his  desk  a  document 
met  his  eye :  it  was  the  draft  of  separation  submitted  by 
Sir  Samuel  Eomilly.  Through  his  mind  flitted  vaguely 
his  struggle  as  he  had  sat  with  that  paper  before  him. 
The  struggle  was  ended;  justice  was  impossible.  It 
remained  only  to  sign  this,  the  death-warrant  of  his 
fatherhood.  He  wrote  his  name  without  a  tremor, 
franked  it  for  the  post  and  laid  it  in  plain  view,  as 
Fletcher  entered  to  announce  the  carriage. 

(152) 


THE    CASTAWAY  153 

The  deep  lines  were  deeper  on  Gordon's  face  as  he 
■went  to  the  pavement;  he  moved  like  a  sleep-walker, 
his  body  obeying  mechanically  the  mandate  of  some 
hidden,  alert  purpose  working  independently  of  eye  and 
brain.  An  inner  voice  rather  than  his  own  seemed  to 
give  the  direction — a  direction  that  made  the  coach- 
man stare,  made  Fletcher  with  a  look  of  dismay  seize 
€oat  and  hat  and  climb  hurriedly  to  the  box  beside  him. 

Gordon  did  not  see  this — ^he  saw  nothing,  knew  noth- 
ing, save  the  rush  of  the  coach  through  the  gloom. 

When  the  worn  night  was  breaking  into  purple  fringes 
of  dawn,  Gordon  stood  on  the  deck  of  a  packet  out- 
bound for  Ostend,  looking  back  over  the  wine-dark 
water  where  the  dissolving  fog,  hung  like  a  fume  of 
silver-gray  against  the  white  Dover  cliffs,  built  a  glit- 
tering city  of  towers  and  banners.  Under  the  first 
beams  the  capricious  vapors  seemed  the  ghosts  of  dead 
ideals  shrouding  a  harbor  of  hate.  His  youth,  his 
dreams,  his  triumphs,  his  bitterness,  his  rebellion,  his 
grief,  all  blended,  lay  there  smarting,  irreparable.  Be- 
fore him  stretched  wanderings  and  regrets  and  broken 
longings. 

"Your  coffee,  my  lord!" — a  familiar  voice  spoke. 
Fletcher  stood  behind  him,  tray  in  hand,  trepidation 
and  resolve  struggling  in  his  countenance. 

Gordon  took  the  coffee  mechanically.  "How  did  you 
come  here?" 

"With  the  coach,  my  lord." 

'^here  are  you  going?" 

The  valet's  hand  shook,  and  he  swallowed  hard. 
"Your  lordship  knows  best,"  he  said  huskily. 


154  THE    CASTAWAY 

Gordon  gazed  a  moment  out  across  the  misty  channel. 
When  he  set  down  the  cup  his  face  had  a  look  that 
brought  to  the  other's  eyes  a  sudden  gladness  and  utter 
devotion. 

^'Thank  you,  Fletcher/'  he  said  gently,  and  turned 
his  gaze  away. 

Presently,  as  the  light  quickened,  he  drew  paper 
from  his  pocket,  put  the  copy  of  "Eomeo  and  Juliet'' 
beneath  it  for  support,  and  with  the  book  resting  on  the 
rail,  began  to  write.  What  he  wrote — strange  that 
chance  should  have  furnished  for  his  tablet  now  a  story 
of  such  deathless  love! — was  a  letter  to  Annabel: 


"A  few  final  words — ^not  many.  Answer  I  do  not  expect, 
nor  does  it  import.  But  you  will  at  least  hear  me.  I  leave 
in  England  but  one  being  whom  you  have  left  me  to  part 
with — my  sister.  Wherever  I  may  go — and  I  may  go  far — 
you  and  I  can  never  meet  in  this  world.  Let  this  fact 
content  or  atone,  and  if  accident  occurs  to  me,  be  kind  to 
her;  or  if  she  is  then  also  nothing,  to  her  children.  For 
never  has  she  acted  or  spoken  toward  you  but  as  your 
friend.  You  once  promised  me  this  much.  Do  not  deem 
the  promise  cancelled — for  it  was  not  a  vow. 

"Whatever  I  may  have  felt,  I  assure  you  that  at  this 
moment  I  bear  you  no  resentment.  If  you  have  injured 
me,  this  forgiveness  is  something;  if  I  have  injured  you, 
it  is  something  more  still.  Remember  that  our  feelings 
will  have  one  rallying  point  so  long  as  our  child  lives. 
Teach  Ada  not  to  hate  me.  I  do  not  ask  for  justification 
to  her — this  is  probably  beyond  the  power  of  either  of  us 
to  give — but  let  her  not  grow  up  believing  I  am  a  deserv- 
ing outcast  from  my  kind,  or  lying  dead  in  some  forgotten 
grave.  For  the  one  would  sadden  her  young  mind  no  less 
Ihan  the  other.  Let  her  one  day  read  what  I  have  writ- 
ten, and  so  judge  me.    And  recollect  that  though  now  it 


THE    CASTAWAY  155 

may  be  an  advantage  to  you,  yet  it  may  sometime  come 
to  be  a  sorrow  to  her  to  have  the  waters  or  the  earth  be- 
tween her  and  her  father. 

"Whether  the  offense  that  has  parted  us  has  been  solely 
on  my  side  or  reciprocal,  or  on  yours  chiefly,  I  have  ceased 
now  to  reflect  upon  any  but  two  things — that  you  are  the 
mother  of  my  child,  and  that  we  shall  never  meet  again." 


CHAPTEE  XXI 

GORDON  SWIMS  FOR  A  LIFE 

From  London  to  Ostend,  and  through  Flanders,  a, 
swart  shadow  trailed  George  Gordon  slowly  but  un- 
erringly. It  was  the  man  whose  dark,  reckless  face  had 
once  turned  with  jealous  passion  to  Jane  Clermont  as 
they  had  watched  a  carriage  approaching  Drury  Lane; 
he  who,  on  a  later  night,  had  pursued  the  same  vehicle, 
then  a  mark  for  jeers,  to  Piccadilly  Terrace.  The  ques- 
tion he  had  uttered  as  he  saw  Gordon  alight  alone,  had 
rung  in  his  brain  through  his  after-search:  "Where 
has  he  left  her  V'  The  London  newspapers  had  not  been 
long  in  chronicling  Gordon^s  arrival  in  Ostend,  and 
thither  he  followed,  making  certain  that  in  finding  one 
he  should  find  the  other. 

The  chase  at  first  was  not  difficult.  Evil  report,  car- 
ried with  malicious  assiduity  by  spying  tourists  and 
globe-trotting  gossip-mongers,  had  soon  overtaken  his 
quarry,  and  Gordon's  progress  became  marked  by  calum- 
nious tales  which  hovered  like  obscene  sea-birds  over  the 
wake  of  a  vessel.  Gordon  had  gone  from  Brussels  in  a 
huge  coach,  copied  from  one  of  Napoleon's  taken  at 
Genappe,  and  purchased  from  a  travelling  Wallachian 
nobleman.    The  vehicle  was  a  noteworthy  object,  and 

(156) 


THE    CASTAWAY  157 

early  formed  the  basis  of  lying  reports.  -A  paragraph  in 
the  Journal  de  Belgique  met  the  pursuer's  eye  on  his 
first  arrival  in  Ostend. 

It  stated  with  detail  that  a  Flemish  coachmaker  had 
delivered  to  the  milor  Anglais  a  coach  of  the  value  of 
two  thousand  eight  hundred  francs;  that  on  going  for 
payment,  he  found  his  lordship  had  absconded  with  the 
carriage;  that  the  defrauded  sellier  had  petitioned  the 
Tribunal  de  Premiere  Instance  for  proper  representa- 
tion to  other  districts,  that  the  fugitive  might  be  ap- 
prehended and  the  stolen  property  seized.  With  this 
clipping  in  his  pocket  the  man  who  tracked  Gordon  fol- 
lowed up  the  Ehine  to  the  confines  of  Switzerland. 
Here  he  lost  a  month,  for  the  emblazoned  wagon  de 
luxe  had  turned  at  Basle,  and,  skirting  Neufchatel,  had 
taken  its  course  to  Lake  Geneva. 

Gordon  had  travelled  wholly  at  random  and  paused 
there  only  because  the  shimmering  blue  waters,  the 
black  mountain  ridges  with  their  epaulets  of  cloud  and, 
in  the  distance,  the  cold,  secular  phantom  of  Mont 
Blanc,  brought  to  his  jaded  senses  the  first  hint  of  relief. 
In  the  Villa  Diodati,  high  above  the  lake,  the  English 
milord  with  the  lame  foot,  the  white  face  and  sparkling 
eyes,  stayed  his  course,  to  the  wonder  of  the  country 
folk  who  speculated  endlessly  upon  the  strange  choice 
which  preferred  the  gloomy  villa  to  the  spires  and  slate 
roofs  of  the  gay  city  so  near.  And  here,  to  his  surprise, 
Gordon  found  ensconced,  in  a  cottage  on  the  high  bank, 
Shelley  and  his  young  wife,  with  the  black-eyed,  creole- 
tinted  girl  whom  the  Drury  Lane  audience  had  hissed. 

So  had  chance  conspired  to  color  circumstance  for 
the  rage  of  tireless  hatred  that  was  following. 


158  THE    CASTAWAY 

The  blows  that  had  succeeded  the  flight  of  Annabel 
with  his  child  had  left  Gordon  stunned.  The  flaming 
recoil  of  his  feeling,  in  that  fierce  denunciation  at  Al- 
mack's,  had  burned  up  in  him  the  very  capacity  for 
further  suffering,  and  for  a  time  the  quiet  of  Diodati, 
set  in  its  grove  above  the  water  like  a  bird's  nest  among 
leaves,  was  a  healing  anodyne. 

From  his  balcony  Mont  Blanc  and  its  snowy  aiguilles 
were  screened,  but  the  sun  sank  roseate  behind  the  Jura, 
and  it  lifted  again  over  vineyarded  hills  which  echoed 
the  songs  of  vine-dressers  and  the  mellow  bells  of  saun- 
tering herds.  Below,  boats  swept  idly  in  the  sun,  or  the 
long  lances  of  the  rain  marched  and  marshalled  across 
the  level  lake  to  the  meeting  and  sundering  of  the 
clouds. 

There  came  a  time  too  soon,  when  the  dulled  nerves 
awoke,  when  the  whole  man  cried  out.  In  the  sharpest 
of  these  moods  Gordon  found  respite  at  the  adjacent 
cottage,  where  Shelley,  whose  bright  eyes  seemed  to 
drink  light  from  the  pages  of  Plato  or  Calderon,  read 
aloud,  or  Jane  Clermont,  piquant  and  daring  as  of  old, 
sang  for  them  some  song  of  Tom  Moore's.  Or  in  the 
long  days  the  two  men  walked  and  sailed,  under  a  sky 
of  garter-blue,  feeling  the  lapping  of  the  waves,  living 
between  the  two  wondrous  worlds  of  water  and  ether, 
till  for  a  time  Gordon  laid  the  troubled  specters  of  his 
thoughts  in  semi-forgetfulness. 

One  day  they  drove  along  the  margin  of  the  lake  to 
Chillon  and  spent  a  night  beneath  the  frowning 
chateau  walls  that  had  entombed  Bonnivard.  On  the 
afternoon  of  their  return,  sitting  alone  on  the  balcony 
with  the  gloom  of  those  dungeons  still  upon  him,  gazing 


THE   CASTAWAY  159 

far  across  the  lake,  across  the  mountains,  toward  that 
home  from  which  he  had  been  driven,  Gordon,  for  the 
first  time  since  he  had  left  England,  found  relief  in 
composition.  He  wrote  of  Chillon's  prisoner,  but  the 
agony  in  the  lines  was  a  personal  one : 

"I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape. 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high, 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye." 

He  wrote  in  the  dimming  luster  of  a  perfect  day. 
Below  him  rippled  the  long  lake  churning  an  inarticu- 
late melody,  and  a  tiny  island  with  trees  upon  it  rested 
the  eye.  As  he  gazed,  beyond  the  dazzling  beryl  foliage, 
set  in  the  sunset,  a  spot  rivetted  his  look.  A  moment 
before  the  white  sail  of  a  boat  had  glanced  there ;  now  a 
confused  flat  blur  lay  on  the  water. 

Gordon  thrust  his  commonplace-book  into  his  pocket 
and  leaned  forward,  shading  his  eyes  from  the  glow. 
The  blot  resolved  itself  into  a  capsized  hull  and  two 
black  figures  struggling  in  the  water,  one  with  difficulty 
supporting  the  other. 

The  next  moment  he  was  dashing  down  the  bank, 
hallooing  for  Eletcher,  peeling  off  coat  and  waistcoat  as 
he  went. 

"There's  a  boat  swamped,"  he  shouted,  as  the  valet 
came  through  the  garden.    "Where  is  the  skiff  ?'' 


160  THE  CASTAWAY 

"Miss  Clermont  has  it,  my  lord/^ 

Gordon  plunged  in,  while  Fletcher  jan  to  smnmon 
the  Shelleys.  They  came  hurrying  along  the  vineyard 
lane  with  frightened  faces,  Mary  to  watch  from  the  high 
bank,  and  Shelley,  who  could  no  more  swim  than 
Fletcher,  to  stride  up  and  down,  his  long  hair  streaming 
in  the  wind.  The  excitement  brought  a  picturesque 
dozen  of  goitred  vine-dressers  from  the  hillside,  who 
looked  on  with  exclamations. 

All  were  gazing  fixedly  on  the  lake,  or  they  might 
have  seen  two  men  enter  the  grounds  from  the  upper 
road.  Of  these,  one  was  a  Swiss  with  a  severe,  thin  face 
and  ascetic  brow,  the  syndic  of  Cologny,  the  nearest 
town — a  bigot  functionary  heartily  disliked  by  the  coun- 
try people.  The  other  was  a  Genevan  attorney.  From 
the  road  they  had  not  seen  the  catastrophe,  and  the 
overturned  boat,  the  struggling  figures,  and  the  swim- 
mer forging  to  the  rescue  came  to  their  view  all  at  once. 

Gordon  was  swimming  as  he  had  never  done  save  once 
— ^when  he  had  swum  the  Hellespont  years  before,  and 
in  mid-channel  a  strange,  great  piebald  fish  had  glided 
near  him.  The  lawyer  saw  him  reach  and  grasp  the 
helpless  man,  and,  supporting  him,  bring  him  to  shore. 
He  sniffed  with  satisfaction. 

"Only  one  man  in  the  canton  can  swim  like  that,^^  he 
said,  "and  that's  the  one  you  came  to  see.  No  wonder 
the  peasants  call  him  'the  English  fish' !" 

The  young  man  whom  Gordon  had  aided  wore  a 
blonde  curling  beard,  contrasting  strongly  with  his  older 
companion's  darker  shaven  cheeks  and  bushy  black 
Greek  eyebrows.  The  unseen  spectators  on  the  terrace 
saw  him  drink  from  his  rescuer's  pocket-flask — saw  him 


THE  CASTAWAY  161 

rise  and  grasp  the  other's  hand  anJ  knew  that  he  was 
thanking  him.  As  they  watched^  a  servant  ran  to  the 
coach-house,  and  the  syndic  observed : 

*'He's  sending  them  into  town  by  carriage.  They're 
going  indoors  now.    We'll  go  down  presently." 

"Take  my  advice,"  urged  the  attorney  above  the  ter- 
race, '^and  let  the  Englishman  alone.  Haven't  we  court 
business  enough  in  Switzerland,  that  we  must  work  for 
Planders  ?  What  have  we  to  do  with  the  complaints  of 
Brussels  coachmakers  ?  And  how  do  you  know  it's  true, 
anyway  ?" 

The  syndic's  lips  snapped  together. 

"I  know  my  business,"  he  bridled.  "He  is  a  wor- 
shiper of  Satan  and  a  scoffer  at  religion." 

"And  you'd  burn  him  with  green  wood  if  you  could, 
as  Calvin  did  Servetus  in  the  town  yonder,  eh  ?" 

^'He  has  committed  every  crime  in  his  own  country," 
went  on  the  other  angrily.  "He  has  formed  a  conspir- 
acy to  overthrow  by  rhyme  all  morals  and  government. 
My  brother  wrote  me  from  Coppet  that  one  of  Madame 
de  Stael's  guests  fainted  at  seeing  him  ride  past,  as  if 
she  had  seen  the  devil.  They  say  in  Geneva  that  he  has 
corrupted  every  grisette  on  the  rue  Basse!  Do  you 
think  he  is  too  good  to  be  a  thief?  Murderer  or  ab- 
sconder or  heretic,  it  is  all  one  to  me.  Cologny  wants 
none  such  on  her  skirts.  Let  us  go  down,"  he  added, 
rising;  "it  will  be  dark  soon." 

The  counsellor  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  followed 
the  other  over  the  sloping  terrace. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  FACE  ON  THE  IVOEY 

When  Gordon  descended  the  stair  he  came  upon  a 
striking  group  at  the  villa  entrance.  Shelley,  with  his 
wife  beside  him,  confronted  the  severe-faced  syndic,  who 
stood  stolidly  with  the  comfortably  plump  avocat.  A 
look  of  indignation  was  on  his  brow,  and  Mary's  face 
was  perturbed. 

^^Here  he  is,''  said  the  functionary  in  his  neighbor- 
hood patois,  and  with  satisfaction. 

'TTou  have  business  with  me  ?"  asked  Gordon. 

"I  have.  I  require  you  to  accompany  me  at  once  to 
Cologny  on  a  matter  touching  the  peace  of  this  canton.'^ 

^^And  this  matter  is  what  ?" 

^^ou  speak  French,"  returned  the  syndic  tartly; 
'^doubtless  you  read  it  as  well," — and  handed  him  a  clip- 
ping from  the  Journal  de  Belgique, 

Gordon  scanned  the  fragment  of  paper,  first  with  sur- 
prise, then  with  a  slow  and  bitter  smile.  He  had  not 
seen  the  story,  but  it  differed  little  from  scores  of  cal- 
umnies that  had  filled  the  columns  of  less  credulous 
newspapers  in  London  before  his  departure.  It  was  a 
breath  fresh  from  the  old  sulphur  bed  of  hatred,  brought 
sharply  to  him  here  in  his  solitude. 
(162) 


THE   CASTAWAY  163 

^T.  see/'  he  said;  "this  states  that  a  certain  English 
milord  had  turned  highwayman  and  deprived  an  honesi 
Fleming  of  a  wagon  ?    How  does  it  affect  me  ?'' 

"Do  you  deny  that  you  have  the  wagon?''  demanded 
the  syndic  curtly. 

"The  wagon  ?  I  have  a  wagon,  yes.  One  bought  for 
me  by  my  servant." 

"In  Brussels?" 

"As  it  happens,  in  Brussels."  The  paleness  of  Gor- 
don's face  was  accentuated  now,  and  his  eyes  held  cores 
of  dangerous  flame.  "And  because  I  am  an  English 
milord,  and  bring  a  wagon  from  Brussels,  you  assume 
that  I  am  a  robber  ?" 

^^ou  were  driven  from  your  own  country,"  menaced 
the  other.  "Do  you  think  we  hear  nothing,  we  Swiss? 
This  canton  knows  you  well  enough!  Stop  those 
horses!"  he  snarled,  for  the  great  coach,  ready  for  its 
trip  to  the  town,  was  rolling  down  the  driveway.  The 
syndic  sprang  to  the  horses'  heads. 

At  the  same  instant  the  two  strangers  who  had  been 
in  the  overturned  boat,  now  with  clothing  partially 
dried,  came  from  the  house. 

"There !"  The  syndic  pointed  to  the  ornate  vehicle. 
*^Do  you  deny  this  is  the  wagon  described  in  that  news- 
paper, and  that  you  absconded  with  it  from  Brussels  ?'* 

The  older  of  the  two  strangers  turned  quick  eyes  on 
Gordon,  then  on  the  wagon.  Before  Gordon  could  re- 
ply, he  spoke  in  nervous  French : 

"I  beg  pardon.  I  was  the  owner  of  that  conveyance, 
and  the  one  who  sold  it." 

^T^Iaybe,"  said  the  functionary,  %ut  you  did  not  sell  it 
to  this  person,  I  have  reason  to  believe." 


164  THE    CASTAWAY 

"No,  yonder  is  the  purchaser/^  He  pointed  to  a  pro- 
saic figure  at  the  steps. 

"His  valet  V  Shelley  thrust  in  explosively. 

"I  told  you  so/^  grunted  the  man  of  law,  and  stared 
with  the  surprise  of  recognition,  as  the  syndic,  ruffling 
with  anger,  turned  on  the  strangers  with  sarcasm: 
"Friends  of  the  English  milord,  no  doubt!" 

The  counsellor  laid  a  hasty  hand  on  his  sleeve : 

"Stop  V  he  said.  "I  think  I  have  had  the  honor  of 
meeting  these  gentlemen  in  Geneva.  Allow  me  to  pre- 
sent you,  monsieur,  to  Prince  Mavrocordato,  minister 
of  foreign  affairs  of  Wallachia,  and" — ^he  turned  to  the 
latter's  younger  companion — "his  secretary,  Count  Pie- 
tro  Gamba,  of  Eavenna." 

The  sour-faced  official  drew  back.  These  were  names 
whose  owners  had  been  public  guests  of  the  canton. 
This  Englishman,  evil  and  outcast  as  he  might  be,  he 
had  no  legal  hold  upon.  He  could  scarcely  frame  a 
grudging  apology,  for  the  resentment  of  self -righteous- 
ness that  was  on  his  tongue,  and  stalked  off  up  the  ter- 
race in  sullen  chagrin  not  consoled  by  the  chuckles  of 
the  attorney  beside  him. 

Gordon  saw  them  go,  his  hands  trembling.  He  re- 
plied mechanically  to  the  grateful  farewells  of  the  two 
strangers  as  they  entered  the  coach,  and  watched  it  roll 
swiftly  down  the  darkening  shore  road,  a  quivering  blur 
before  his  eyes.  A  fierce  struggle  was  within  him,  the 
peace  which  the  tranquil  poise  of  Shelley's  creed  had 
lent  him,  warring  against  a  clamant  rage. 

Not  only  in  England  was  he  maligned.  Here,  on  the 
edge  of  this  mountain  barrier,  defamation  had  followed 
him.     The  pair  riding  in  his  own  carriage  knew  who 


THE   CASTAWAY  165 

he  was ;  the  older  had  spoken  his  name  and  title.  And 
they  had  not  elected  to  stay  beyond  necessity.  Yet  for 
their  momentary  presence,  indeed,  he  should  be  grate- 
ful. But  for  this  trick  of  coincidence  he  should  now 
be  haled  before  a  bungling  Genevan  tribunal,  his  name 
and  person  a  mark  for  the  sparring  of  pettifogging 
Swiss  officials ! 

These  thoughts  were  clashing  through  his  mind  as 
he  turned  and  walked  slowly  down  to  the  bank  where 
Shelley's  Swiss  servant  had  moored  the  stranger's  res- 
cued boat,  bailed  out  and  with  sail  stretched  to  dry.  The 
sunset,  as  he  stood,  flamed  redly  across  the  lake,  its  ray 
glinting  from  the  rim  of  a  bright  object  whose  broken 
chain  had  caught  beneath  the  boat's  gunwale.  He 
leaned  and  drew  it  out. 

It  was  an  oval  miniature  backed  with  silver — the  por- 
trait of  a  young  girl,  a  face  frail  and  delicately  hued, 
with  fine  line  of  chin  and  slender  neck,  with  wistful 
eyes  the  deep  color  of  the  Adriatic,  hair  a  gush  of 
tawny  gold,  skin  like  warm  Arum  lilies,  and  a  string 
of  pearls  about  her  neck.  Evidently  it  had  belonged  to 
one  of  the  two  men  with  whom  the  craft  had  capsized. 
It  was  too  late  now  to  overtake  the  coach;  he  would 
send  it  after  them  that  evening. 

He  turned  the  miniature  over.  On  the  back  was  en- 
graved a  name:  "Teresa  Gamba."  Gamba?  It  had 
been  one  of  the  names  spoken  by  the  attorney,  that  of 
the  young  count  for  whose  rescue  he  had  swum  so  hard. 

He  looked  again  at  the  ivory.  His  wife?  No,  no; 
innocence  of  life,  ignorance  of  its  passioiis  and  parades 
were  there.  His  sister?  Yes.  The  fa5r  hair  and  blue 
eyes  were  alike.     And  now  he  caught  a  subtle  resem- 


166  THE   CASTAWAY 

blance  of  feature.  She  was  dear  to  this  brother,  no 
doubt — dear  as  was  his  own  half-sister  to  him,  well-nigh 
the  only  being  left  in  England  who  believed  in  him  and 
loved  him. 

He  looked  up  at  a  hail  from  the  lake.  A  boat  was  ap- 
proaching, bearing  a  single  feminine  rower.  As  he 
gazed,  she  looked  over  her  shoulder  to  wave  something 
white  at  the  porch. 

"It  is  Jane.  She  has  been  to  the  post,"  cried  Shelley 
.  from  the  terrace,  and  hastened  down  the  bank. 

Gordon  thrust  the  ivory  into  his  pocket  as  the  skiff 
darted  in  to  the  landing. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


As  he  took  the  two  missives  the  girl  handed  him 
Gordon  caught  his  breath,  for  one  he  saw  was  directed 
in  Annabel's  hand.  For  a  moment  a  hope  that  over- 
leaped all  his  suffering  rose  in  his  brain.  Had  those 
months  wrought  a  change  in  her  ?  Had  she,  too,  thought 
of  their  child?  Had  the  cry  he  voiced  on  the  packet 
that  bore  him  from  England  struck  an  answering  chord 
in  her?  He  opened  its  cover.  An  inclosure  dropped 
out. 

He^  picked  it  up  blankly.  It  was  the  note  he  had 
pencilled  on  the  channel,  returned  unopened. 

The  sudden  revulsion  chilled  him.  He  broke  the  seal 
of  the  second  letter  and  read — read  while  a  look  of  utter 
sick  whiteness  crept  across  his  face,  a  look  of  rage  and 
suffering  that  marked  every  feature. 

It  was  from  his  sister,  a  letter  written  with  fingers 
that  soiled  and  creased  it  in  their  agony,  blotted  and 
stained  with  tears.  For  the  thing  it  told  of  was  a 
dreadful  thing,  a  whispered  charge  against  him  so 
damning,  so  satanic  in  its  cruelty,  that  though  lip 
might  murmur  it  to  a  gloating  ear,  yet  pen  refused  to 
vord  it.    The  whole  world  turned  black  before  him,  and 

(167) 


168  THE    CASTAWAY 

the  dusk  seemed  shot  through  with  barbed  and  flaming 
javelins  of  agony. 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and,  with  a  gesture 
like  a  madman's,  thrust  it  into  Shelley's,  turning  to  him 
a  countenance  distorted  with  passion,  gauche^  malig- 
nant, repulsive. 

"Eead  it,  Shelley,"  he  said  in  a  strangled  voice. 
*'Eead  it  and  know  London,  the  most  ineffable  centaur 
ever  begotten  of  hypocrisy  and  a  nightmare !  Eead  what 
its  wretched  lepers  are  saying!  There  is  a  place  in 
Michael  Angelo's  ^Last  Judgment'  in  the  Sistine  Chapel 
that  was  made  for  their  kind,  and  may  the  like  await 
them  in  that  of  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ — ■ 
Amen!" 

With  this  fearful  imprecation  he  flung  away  from 
their  startled  faces  along  the  winding  vineyarded  lane, 
on  into  the  dusk,  lost  to  a  sense  of  direction,  to  every- 
thing save  the  blackness  in  his  own  soul. 

The  night  fell,  odorous  with  grape-scents,  and  the 
moon  stained  the  terraces  to  amber.  It  shone  on  Gor- 
don as  he  sat  by  the  little  wharf  where  the  skiff  rocked 
in  the  ripples,  his  eyes  viewless,  looking  straight  before 
him  across  the  lake. 

For  him  there  was  no  sanctuary  in  time  or  in  dis- 
tance. The  passage  he  had  read  at  ISTewstead  Abbey  in 
his  mother's  open  Bible,  beside  her  body,  flashed  through 
his  mind :  And  among  these  nations  slialt  thou  find  no 
ease,  neither  shall  the  sole  of  thy  foot  have  rest.  .  .  . 
In  the  morning  thou  shalt  say.  Would  God  it  were  even! 
and  at  even  thou  shalt  say.  Would  God  it  were  morning! 
He  had  found — should  find — ^no  ease  nor  rest!  The 
captive  of  Chillon  had  been  bound  only  with  fetters  of 


THE    CASTAWAY  169 

iron  to  stone  pillars.  He  was  chained  with  fiery  links 
of  hate  to  the  freezing  walls  of  the  world's  contumely  I 

Footsteps  went  by  along  the  shadowy  lane.  Shelley's 
voice  spoke:  "He  will  come  back  soon,  and  we  must 
comfort  him  if  we  can/' 

The  words  came  distinctly  as  the  footsteps  died  away. 

Something  clutched  tangibly  at  Gordon's  soul.  In 
that  instant  his  gaze,  lifted,  rested  on  a  white  square  in 
the  moonlight.  It  was  a  familiar  enough  object,  but 
now  it  appeared  odd  and  outre.  He  rose  and  approached 
it.  It  had  been  a  sign-post  bearing  an  arrow  and  the 
words  "Villa  Diodati."  Now  malice  had  painted  out 
the  name  and  replaced  it  with  new  and  staring  char- 
acters. 

"Atheist  and  Fool."  It  glared  level  at  him  with 
a  baleful  malevolence  that  chilled  the  moment's  warmer 
softening  into  ice.  Atheist!  Without  God.  What 
need,  then,  had  he  for  man  ?  Let  the  moralists  have  it 
so,  since  they  stickled  so  lustily  for  endless  brimstone. 
Fool  ?  He  would  be  so,  then !  His  brain  should  lie  fal- 
low and  untilled — he  would  write  no  more ! 

With  a  quick  gesture  he  drew  from  his  pocket  his 
commonplace-book.  He  laid  it  against  the  disfigured 
sign-board,  pencilled  a  few  words  on  its  cover  and, 
turning,  hurled  it  far  from  him  into  the  shrubbery. 

A  twig  snapped.  He  looked  around.  Jane  Clermont 
stood  near  him,  her  eyes  smiling  into  his,  fringed  with 
intoxication  and  daring. 

"I  know,"  she  said;  "they  are  hounding  you  still. 
They  hated  me,  too!"  She  came  quite  close  to  him. 
"What  need  we  care  ?    What  are  they  all  to  us  ?" 

It  was  the  Jane  of  the  Drury  Lane  greenroom  he  saw 


170  THE  CASTAWAY 

now — ^the  Jane  whose  brilliance  and  wit  had  held  him 
then;  but  there  was  something  deeper  in  her  look  that 
he  had  never  seen  before:  a  recklessness,  an  invitation 
and  an  assent. 

"Jane  I"  he  exclaimed. 

She  touched  his  hand.  "Why  should  we  stay  here? 
Let  us  go  away  from  them  all — where  they  cannot  fol- 
low us  to  sting  I" 

Gordon  stared  at  her,  his  eyes  holding  hers.  To  go 
away — with  her  ?  To  slip  the  leash  of  all  that  was  pa- 
gan in  him  ?  What  matter  ?  He  was  damned  anyway — 
a  social  Pariah ;  why  strive  to  undeserve  the  reputation  ? 
His  thought  was  swirling  through  savage  undercurrents 
of  vindictive  wrath,  circling,  circling  like  a  Maelstrom, 
about  this  one  dead  center:  Civilization  had  cast  him 
off.  Henceforth  his  life  was  his  own,  to  live  to  himself, 
for  his  own  ends,  as  the  savage,  as  the  beast  of  the  field. 
To  live  and  to  die,  knowing  that  no  greater  agony  than 
was  meted  to  him  now  could  await  him,  even  in  that 
nethermost  reach  where  the  lost  are  driven  at  the  end. 

"We  must  comfort  him  if  we  can !"  The  words  Shel- 
ley had  spoken  seemed  to  vibrate  in  the  stillness  like  the 
caught  key  of  an  organ.  He  turned  to  where  Villa 
Diodati  above  them  slept  in  the  long  arms  of  the  night 
shadows,  listening  to  the  contending  voices  within  him. 
Comfort?  The  placid  comfort  of  philosophy  for  him 
whose  flesh  was  fever  and  his  blood  quicksilver?  In 
this  girl  life  and  action  beckoned  to  him — life  full  and 
abundant — forgetfulness,  wandering,  and  pleasure,  fleet- 
ing surely,  but  still  his  while  it  should  last !    And  yet — 

The  girPs  hand  was  on  the  skiff.  On  a  sudden  a  cry 
of  fear  burst  from  her  lips  and  she  shrank  back  as  a 


THE   CASTAWAY  171 

disordered  figure  broke  from  the  darktfess  and  clutched 
Gordon's  arm  fiercely. 

"Where  are  you  taking  her  now  ?'' 

Gordon's  thought  veered.  In  his  numbness  of  feeling 
there  scarce  seemed  strangeness  in  the  apparition.  As 
he  looked  at  the  oriental,  mustachioed  face,  haggard  and 
haunted,  his  lips  rather  than  his  mind  replied : 

"Who  knows?" 

^TTou  lie !  You  ruined  her  career  and  stole  her  away 
from  London  and  from  me !  Now  you  want  to  take  her 
from  these  last  friends  of  hers — for  yourself  1  But  you? 
can  not  go  where  I  will  not  find  you !  And  where  you 
go  the  world  shall  know  you  and  despise  you !" 

Jane's  eyes  flashed  upon  the  speaker.  "You!'^  she* 
cried  in  contemptuous  anger.  "You  hated  him  even  m 
London;  now  you  have  followed  him  here.  It  is  you 
who  have  set  the  peasants  to  spy  upon  us !  It  is  you  who 
have  spread  tales  through  Geneva !  You  whose  lies  sent 
the  syndic  to-day !" 

Gordon  had  been  staring  at  the  Moorish,  theatric 
face  with  a  gaze  of  singular  inquiry,  his  brain  search- 
ing, searching  for  a  lost  clue.  All  at  once  the  haze  light- 
ened. His  thought  leaped  across  a  chasm  of  time.  He 
saw  a  reckless  youth,  a  deserter  from  the  navy,  whom 
he  had  befriended  in  Greece — a  youth  who  had  vanished 
suddenly  from  Missolonghi  during  the  feast  of  Eama- 
zan.  He  saw  a  shambling,  cactus-bordered  road  to  the 
seashore — a  file  of  Turkish  soldiers,  the  foremost  in  a 
purple  coat,  and  carrying  a  long  wand — a  beast  of  bur- 
den bearing  a  brown  sack — 

"Trevanion !"  he  said.    "Trevanion — ^by  the  Lord !" 

He  burst  into  a  laugh,  reechoing,  sardonic,  a  laugh 


172  THE    CASTAWAY 

now  of  absolute,  remorseless,  unconcern,  of  crude  reck- 
lessness flaunting  at  last  supreme  over  crumbled  resolve 
— ^the  laugh  of  a  zealot  flagellant  beneath  the  lash,  a 
derisive  Villon  on  the  scaffold. 

"So  I  stole  her  from  you!  You,  even  you,  dare  to 
iiccuse  me.  Out  of  my  sight!"  he  said,  and  flung  him 
roughly  from  the  path. 

Gordon  held  out  his  hand  to  Jane  Clermont,  lifted 
her  into  the  skiff,  and  springing  in,  sent  the  slim  cockle- 
shell shooting  out  into  the  still  expanse  like  an  arrow 
on  the  air. 

Then  he  took  up  the  oars  and  turned  its  prow  down 
the  lake  to  where  the  streaming  lights  of  the  careless 
city  wavered  tnrough  the  mists,  pale  green  under  the 
moonbeams. 

The  journal  which  Gordon  had  hurled  from  him  lay 
in  the  vine-rows  next  morning  when  Shelley,  with  a  face 
of  trouble  and  foreboding,  passed  along  the  dewy  lane. 
He  read  the  words  written  on  its  cover : 

"And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools  the  way  to 
dusty  death.  I  will  keep  no  record  of  that  same  hester- 
nal  torch-light;  and  to  prevent  me  from  returning,  like 
a  dog,  to  the  vomit  of  memory,  I  throw  away  this  vol- 
ume, and  write  in  Ipecacuanha:  Hang  up  justice!  Let 
morality  go  beg !  To  be  sure,  I  have  long  despised  my- 
self and  man,  but  I  never  spat  in  the  face  of  my  species 
before— '0  fool!    I  shall  go  mad !' '' 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

THE  MARK  OF  THE  BEAST 

'TToTir  coffee,  my  lord?^^ 

It  was  Fleteher^s  usual  inquiry,  repeated  night  and 
morning — ^the  same  words  that  on  the  Ostend  packet 
had  told  his  master  that  his  wanderings  were  shared. 
After  these  many  months  in  Venice,  where  George  Gor- 
don had  shut  upon  his  retreat  the  floodgates  of  the  world, 
the  old  servant^s  tone  had  the  same  wistful  cadence  of 
solicitude. 

Time  for  Gordon  had  passed  like  wreckage  running 
with  the  tide.  The  few  fevered  weeks  of  wandering 
through  Switzerland  with  Jane  Clermont — ^he  scarcely; 
knew  where  or  how  they  had  ended — ^had  left  in  his 
mind  only  a  series  of  phantom  impressions:  woods  of 
withered  pine,  Alpine  glaciers  shining  like  truth.  Wen- 
gen  torrents  like  tails  of  white  horses  and  distant  thun- 
der of  avalanches,  as  if  God  were  pelting  the  devil  dowa 
from  Heaven  with  snowballs.  And  neither  the  piping  of 
the  shepherd,  nor  the  rumble  of  the  storm ;  not  the  tor- 
rent, the  mountain,  the  glacier,  the  forest  or  the  cloud, 
had  lightened  the  darkness  of  his  heart  or  enabled  him 
to  lose  his  wretched  identity  in  the  Power  and  the  Glorj 
above  and  beneath  him. 

(173) 


174  THE    CASTAWAY 

In  that  night  at  Geneva  the  tidal  wave  of  execration 
which  had  rolled  over  his  emerging  manhood  had  left 
as  it  ebbed  only  a  bare  reef  across  which  blew  cool,  in- 
furiate winds  of  avid  recklessness;  and  through  these 
insensate  blasts  he  moved  in  a  kind  of  waking  somnam- 
bulism, in  which  his  acts  seemed  to  him  those  of  another 
individual,  and  he,  the  real  actor,  poised  aloft,  watching 
with  a  sardonic  speculation. 

At  Eome  his  numbed  senses  awakened,  and  he  found 
himself  alone,  and  around  him  his  human  kind  which  he 
hated,  spying  tourists  and  scribblers,  who  sharpened 
their  scavenger  pencils  to  record  his  vagaries.  He  fled 
from  them  to  Venice,  where,  thanks  to  report,  Fletcher 
had  found  his  master. 

But  it  was  a  changed  Gordon  who  had  ensconced  him- 
self here,  a  Gordon  to  whom  social  convention  had  be- 
come a  sneer,  and  the  praise  or  blame  of  his  fellows  idle 
chaff  cast  in  the  wind.  He  ate  and  drank  and  slept — 
not  as  other  men,  but  as  a  gormand  and  dehauche. 
Such  letters  as  he  wrote — ^to  his  sister,  to  Tom  Moore, 
to  Hobhouse — were  flippant  mockeries.  Earely  was  he 
seen  at  opera,  at  ridotto,  at  conversazione.  When  he 
went  abroad  it  was  most  often  by  night,  as  though  he 
shunned  the  daylight.  More  than  one  cabaret  in  the 
shadow  of  the  Palace  of  the  Doges  knew  the  white 
satiric  face  that  stared  out  from  its  terrace  over  the 
waterways,  where  covered  gondolas  crept  like  black 
spiders,  till  the  clock  of  St.  Mark's  struck  the  third 
hour  of  the  morning.  And  more  than  one  black  and 
red-sashed  boatman  whispered  tales  of  the  Palazzo 
Mocenigo  on  the  Grand  Canal  and  the  "Giovannoito 
Inghse  who  spent  great  sums." 


•     '  "  THE   castaway;  175 

The  gondoUeri  turned  their  heads  to  gaze  as  they 
sculled  past  the  carved  gateway.  Did  not  the  priests  call 
him  "the  wicked  milord'^  ?  And  did  not  all  Venice  know 
of  Marianna,  the  linen-draper's  wife  of  the  street 
Spezieria,  and  of  Margarita  Cogni,  the  black-eyed 
Fomarina,  who  came  and  went  as  she  pleased  in 
the  milord's  household?  They  themselves  had  gained 
many  a  coin  by  telling  these  tales  to  the  tourists  from 
the  milord's  own  country,  who  came  to  watch  from 
across  the  canal  with  opera-glasses,  as  if  he  were  a  rav- 
enous beast  or  a  raree-show;  who  lay  in  wait  at  night- 
fall to  see  his  gondola  pass  to  the  wide  outlying  lagoon, 
haunted  the  sand-spit  of  the  Lidoi  where  he  rode  horse- 
back, and  offered  bribes  to  his  servants  to  see  the  bed 
wherein  he  slept.  They  took  the  tourists'  soldi  shame- 
facedly, however,  for  they  knew  other  tales,  too:  how 
he  had  furnished  money  to  send  Beppo,  the  son  of  the 
fruit  peddler,  to  the  art  school  at  Naples;  how  he  had 
given  fifty  louis  d'or  to  rebuild  the  burned  shop  of  the 
printer  of  San  Samuele. 

"Your  coffee,  my  lord?"  Fletcher  repeated  the  in- 
quiry, for  his  master  had  not  heard. 

"No ;  bring  some  cognac,  Fletcher." 

The  valet  obeyed,  though  with  covert  concern.  He 
had  seen  the  inroads  that  year  had  made ;  they  showed  in 
the  lines  on  the  pallid  face,  in  the  brown  hair  now  just 
flecked  with  gray,  in  the  increasing  fire  in  the  deep 
eyes.  The  brandy  sat  habitually  at  his  master's  elbow 
in  these  days. 

It  was  two  hours  past  midnight,  for  to  Gordon  day 
and  night  were  one,  and  sleep  only  a  neutral  inertness, 
worse  with  its  dreams  than  the  garish  day  he  dreaded. 


176  THE    CASTAWAY 

On  the  Hearth  a  fire  blazed,  whose  flame  bred  crimson 
marionettes  that  danced  over  the  noble  carved  ceiling 
panels,  the  tall  Venetian  mirrors  supported  by  gilt  lions, 
the  faded  furnishings  and  the  mildew-marked  canvases 
whose  portraits  looked  stonily  from  the  walls. 

A  gust  of  voices  and  the  sound  of  virginals,  flung  up 
from  the  canal,  came  faintly  through  the  closed  case- 
ment. He  moved  his  shoulders  wearily.  Yesterday  had 
been  Christmas  Day.  To-night  was  the  eve  of  St. 
Stephen,  the  opening  of  the  carnival  season,  with  every 
comer  osteria  a  symphony  of  fiddles,  when  Venice  went 
mad  in  all  her  seventy  islands.  What  were  holidays, 
what  was  Christmas  to  him? 

Even  in  the  warm  blaze  Gordon  shivered.  Ghosts 
had  troubled  him  this  day.  Ghosts  that  stalked  through 
the  confused  mist  and  rose  before  him  in  the  throngs 
that  passed  and  repassed  before  his  mind's  eye.  Ghosts 
whose  diverse  countenances  resolved  themselves,  like 
phantasmagoria,  into  a  single  one — ^the  pained  eager 
face  of  Shelley.  The  recurring  sensation  had  brought 
a  sick  sense  of  awakening,  as  of  something  buried  that 
stirred  in  its  submerged  chrysalis,  protesting  against  the 
silt  settling  upon  it. 

But  brandy  had  lost  its  power  to  lay  those  ghosts. 
He  went  to  the  desk  which  held  the  black  phial,  the  tiny 
glass  comforter  to  which  he  resorted  more  and  more 
often.  Once  with  its  surcease  it  had  brought  a  splendor 
and  plenitude  of  power ;  of  late  its  relief  had  been  lent  at 
the  price  of  distorted  visions.  As  he  drew  out  the  thin- 
walled  drawer,  its  worm-eaten  bottom  collapsed  and  its 
jumble  of  contents  poured  down  on  the  mahogany. 

He   paused,   his   hand   outstretched.     Atop   of  the 


THE   CASTAWAY  177 

melange  lay  a  silver-set  miniatuTe.  "  He  picked  it  up, 
holding  it  nearer  the  light.  A  girl's  f  ace^  hned  like  a  hy- 
acinth, looked  out  of  his  palm,  painted  on  ivory.  A 
string  of  pearls  was  about  her  neck. 

Por  an  instant  he  regarded  the  miniature  fixedly,  his 
recollection  travelling  far.  The  pearls  aided.  It  was  the 
one  he  had  found  in  the  capsized  boat  at  Villa  Diodati ! 
He  had  purposed  sending  it  after  the  two  strangers.  The 
events  of  that  wild  night  had  effaced  the  incident  from 
his  mind,  as  a  wet  sponge  wipes  off  a  slate.  Fletcher, 
finding  the  oval  long  ago  in  a  pocket  lining,  had  put  it 
in  the  desk  drawer  for  safe-keeping,  where  until  this 
moment  it  had  not  met  his  master's  eye. 

"Teresa."  Gordon  suddenly  remembered  the  name 
perfectly.  With  the  memory  mixed  a  sardonic  reflection : 
the  man  who  had  lost  the  miniature  that  day  in  Switzer- 
land had  hastened  away  with  clothing  scarce  dried. 
Well,  if  that  brother  had  deemed  himself  too  good  to 
linger  with  the  outcast,  the  balance  had  been  squared. 
The  sister,  perforce,  had  made  a  longer  stay ! 

He  put  down  the  miniature,  found  the  phial  of  lauda- 
num and  uncorked  it,  but  the  face  drew  him  back.  It 
was  not  the  external  similitude  now,  but  something 
beneath,  unobserved  the  day  he  had  found  it — ^the  pure 
sensibility,  shining  unsullied  through  the  transparent 
media.  A  delicate  convent  slip,  she  seemed,  not  yet 
transplanted  to  the  unsifted  soil  of  the  world!  A 
strange  portrait  for  him  to  gaze  upon  here  in  this 
palace  of  ribaldry — him,  the  moral  Caliban,  the  dweller 
in  Golgotha  on  whose  forehead  was  written  the  Mc 
jacet  of  a  dead  soul ! 

The  antithesis  of  the  picture,  bold,  Medea-like,  tall 


17a  THE   CASTAWAY; 

as  a  Pythoness,  with  hair  of  night,  black  flashing  eyes 
and  passion  blent  with  ferocity,  projected  itself,  like  a 
materialization  in  a  seance,  from  the  air.  He  turned  his 
head  with  a  sensation  of  bodily  presence,  though  he 
knew  the  one  of  whom  he  thought  was  then  in  Naples. 
If  she  should  enter  and  find  him  with  that  ivory  in  his 
hand,  what  a  rare  sirocco  would  be  let  loose ! 

He  tried  to  smile,  but  the  old  arrant  raillery  would 
not  come.  The  miniature  blotted  out  the  figure  of  the 
Fornarina.  Against  his  will,  it  suggested  all  the  pure 
things  that  he  had  ever  known — ^his  youthful  romance, 
his  dreams,  Ada,  his  child ! 

Holding  it,  he  walked  to  a  folded  mirror  in  a  comer 
of  the  wall  and  opened  its  panels.  There  had  been  a 
time  when  he  had  said  no  appetite  should  ever  rule  him ; 
the  face  he  saw  reflected  now  wore  the  lines  of  incorrigi- 
ble self-indulgence,  animalism,  the  sinister  badge  of  the 
bacchanal. 

"Is  that  you,  George  Gordon  ?"  he  asked. 

The  ghosts  drew  nearer.  They  peered  over  his  shoul- 
ders. He  felt  their  fingers  grasping  at  him.  He  cursed 
them.  By  what  right  did  they  follow  him?  By  what 
damnable  chance,  ruled  by  what  infernal  jugglery,  came 
this  painted  semblance  to  open  old  tombs?  Something 
had  awakened  in  him — it  was  the  side  that  recollected, 
remorseless  and  impenitent  but  no  longer  benumbed, 
writhing  with  smarting  vitality.  Awake,  it  recoiled 
abashed  from  the  voiceless  vade  retro  of  that  symbol. 
What  part  had  he  in  that  purity  whose  visible  emblem 
mocked  and  derided  him?  What  comradeship  did  life 
hold  for  him  save  the  hideous  Gorgon  of  memory,  the 


THE    CASTAWAY  179 

Cerberus  of  ill  fame,  spirits  of  the  ^ark,  garish  fellows 
of  the  half -world — '^they  whose  steps  go  down  to  hell !" 

A  fury,  demoniac,  terrible,  fell  on  him.  He  seized 
the  miniature,  dashed  it  on  the  floor,  stamped  it  with 
his  heel  and  crushed  and  ground  it  into  indistinguisha- 
ble fragments. 

Then  he  sprang  up,  and  with  an  oath  whose  note  was 
echoed  by  the  tame  raven  croaking  on  the  landing, 
rushed  down  the  stairway  and  threw  himself  into  his 
gondola. 

The  moon  rose  red  as  a  house  afire.  Before  it  paled, 
he  had  passed  the  lagoon.  In  the  dim  light  that  pre* 
saged  the  sodden  dawn  he  leaped  ashore  on  the  main- 
land, pierced  the  damp  laurel  thickets  that  skirted  the 
river  Brenta  and  plunged  into  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TEHESA  MEETS  A  STRANGEfi 

Through  the  twittering  dawn,  with  its  multitudinous 
damp  scents,  its  stubble-fields  of  maize  glimpsed  through 
the  stripped  ilex  trees,  whose  twigs  scrawled  black  hiero- 
glyphics on  the  hueless  sky,  Gordon  strode  sharply,  heed- 
less of  direction. 

The  convulsion  of  rage  with  which  he  had  destroyed 
the  miniature  had  finished  the  work  the  latter's  advent 
had  begun.  The  nerve,  stirring  from  its  opiate  sleep  to 
a  consciousness  of  dull  pain,  had  jarred  itself  to  agony. 
His  mind  was  awake,  but  the  wind  had  swept  saltly 
through  the  coverts  of  his  passion,  and  their  denizens 
crouched  shivering. 

The  sight  of  a  dove-tinted  villa  guarded  by  cypress 
spears — a  gray  gathering  of  cupolas — told  him  he  had 
walked  about  two  miles.  This  was  La  Mira,  one  of 
the  estates  of  the  Contessa  Albrizzi,  a  great  name  in 
Venice.  He  turned  aside  into  the  deserted  olive  grove 
above  the  river.  A  slim  walk  meandered  here,  thick 
with  dead  leaves,  with  a  cleared  slope  stretching  down 
to  where  the  deep-dyed  Brenta  twisted  like  a  drenched 
ribbon  on  its  way  to  the  salt  marshes.  Tronting  this 
breach,  Gordon  came  abruptly  upon  a  wooden  shrine, 
with  a  weather-fretted  prayer  bench. 

(180) 


THE    CASTAWAY  181 

He  stopped,  regarding  it  half -absently,  his  surcharged 
thought  rearranging  disused  images  out  of  some  dusty 
speculative  storehouse.  A  more  magnificent  shrine  rose 
on  every  campo  of  Venice.  They  stood  for  a  priestly 
hierarchy,  an  elaborate  clericalism — ^the  mullioned  wor- 
ship that  to  his  life  seemed  only  the  variform-  expression 
of  the  futile  earth-want,  the  satiric  hallucination  of 
finite  and  mortal  brain  that  grasped  at  immortality  and 
the  infinite.  This,  set  in  the  isolation  of  the  place, 
seemed  a  symbol  of  more  primitive  faith  and  prayer,  of 
religion  rough-hewn,  shorn  of  its  formal  accessories. 

He  went  a  step  nearer,  seeing  a  small  book  lying  be- 
side the  prayer  bench.  He  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  re- 
print in  English  of  his  own  "Prisoner  of  Chillon,'^  from 
a  local  press  in  Padua. 

A  sense  of  incongruity  smote  him.  It  was  the  poem 
he  had  composed  in  Geneva.  He  readily  surmised  that 
it  was  through  Shelley  the  verses  had  reached  his  pub- 
lisher in  England,  to  meet  his  eye  a  year  afterward, 
in  a  foreign  dress,  in  an  Italian  forest. 

He  turned  the  pages  curiously,  conning  the  scarce  re- 
membered stanzas.  Could  he  himself  have  created, 
them?  The  instant  wonder  passed,  blotted  out  by  lines 
he  saw  penned  in  Italian  on  the  fly-leaf — lines  that 
he  read  with  a  tightening  at  his  heart  and  an  electric- 
like  rush  of  strange  sensations  such  as  he  had  never  felt. 
For  what  was  written  there,  in  the  delicate  tracery  of 
a  feminine  hand,  and  in  phrases  simple  and  pure  as 
only  the  secret  heart  of  a  girl  could  have  framed  them, 
was  a  prayer : 

*'Ohj  my  God!  Graciously  hear  me.    I  taJce  encourage^ 


182  THE  CASTAWAY 

ment  from  the  assurance  of  Thy  word  to  pray  to  Thee 
in  behalf  of  the  author  of  this  hooTc  which  has  so  pleased 
me.  Thou  desirest  not  the  death  of  a  sinner — save, 
therefore,  him  whom  Venice  calls  'the  wicked  milord/ 
Thou  who  by  sin  art  offended  and  by  penance  satisfied, 
give  to  him  the  desire  to  return  to  the  good  and  to  glo- 
rify the  talents  Thou  hast  so  richly  bestowed  upon  him. 
And  grant  that  the  punishment  his  evil  behavior  has 
already  brought  him  be  more  than  sufficient  to  cover 
his  guilt  from  Thine  eyes, 

"Oh  blessed  Virgin,  Queen  of  the  most  holy  Rosary  I 
Intercede  and  obtain  for  me  of  thy  8 on  our  Lord  this 
grace!  Amen." 

A  step  fell  behind  him.  He  turned  half-dazed,  his 
mind  full  of  conflict.  A  girl  stood  near  him,  delicate 
and  alert  and  wand-like  as  a  golden  willow,  her  curling 
amber  hair  loosely  caught,  her  sea-blue  eyes  wide  and  a 
little  startled.  She  wore  a  Venetian  hood,  out  of  whose 
green  sheath  her  face  looked,  like  lilies  imder  leaves. 

Gordon's  mind  came  back  to  the  present  of  time  and 
space  across  an  illimitable  distance. 

He  stared,  half  believing  himself  in  some  automatic 
hallucination.  There  had  been  no  time  to  speculate 
upon  what  manner  of  hand  had  written  those  words, 
what  manner  of  woman's  soul  had  so  weirdly  touched 
his  own  out  of  the  void.  Knowledge  came  staggeringly. 
Hers  was  the  face  of  the  miniature  that  his  heel  had 
crushed  to  powder. 

He  noted  that  her  eyes  had  fallen  to  the  book  in  his 
hand,  as  mechanically  he  asked,  in  Italian : 

^This  book  is  yours,  Signorina?" 


THE    CASTAWAY  183 

^TTes/'  There  was  a  faint  flush  of  color  in  her  cheeky, 
for  she  saw  the  volume  was  open  at  the  written  page. 

Gordon  was  looking  at  her  palely,  seeing  her  face  set 
in  a  silver  oval.  Eyes,  hair  and  lips;  there  in  lifeless 
pigments,  here  in  flesh  and  blood !  The  same  yet  more, 
for  here  were  unnunned  youth,  slumbrous,  glorious 
womanhood  unawaked,  stirring  rosily  in  every  vein,  giv-v 
ing  a  passionate  human  tint  to  the  spiritual  impression. 
And  underneath  all,  the  same  unsullied  something  he 
had  raged  at  that  black  night,  even  while  her  prayer  for 
him  lay  here  dumb  at  the  feet  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows ! 

His  voice  sounded  unreal  to  his  own  ears  as  he  spoke, 
his  mind  feeling  its  way  through  tumbled  predisposi- 
tions to  an  unfamiliar  goal.  "If  apology  be  owed,'^  he 
said,  ''for  reading  what  was  intended  for  purer  eyes 
than  this  world^s,  I  most  humbly  offer  it,  Signorina! 
I  did  so  quite  inadvertently.'^ 

He  held  out  the  book  as  he  spoke,  and  her  fingers 
closed  over  it,  the  gesture  betraying  confusion.  Who  was 
this  stranger,  with  face  of  such  wan  luster  and  gray- 
blue  eyes  so  sadly  brilliant?  Some  sense  in  her  dis- 
cerned a  deeper,  unguessed  suffering  that  made  her 
heart  throb  painfully. 

"If  there  be  an  ear  which  is  open  to  human  appeal,'* 
he  added  gently,  "that  prayer  was  registered,  I  know !" 

He  spoke  calmly  enough,  but  a  hundred  thoughts 
were  ricochetting  through  his  mind.  Pulpits  had  ful- 
minated against  him,  priest  and  laic  had  thundered  him 
down,  but  when — ^in  London,  in  Geneva,  in  Venice — ^had 
a  single  disinterested  voice  been  lifted  in  a  prayer  for 
him  before  ?  And  this  girl  had  never  seen  him. 

"If  there  be!"     Her  thought  stirred  protestingly. 


184  THE    CASTAWAY 

''Ah,  Signore,  surely  there  is  Someone  who  hears !  How 
could  one  live  and  pray  otherwise  T' 

How  indeed?  To  such  a  one  as  she,  to  pray  and  to 
live  were  one  and  the  same  thing.  Prayer  to  her  was 
not  a  mental  process — ^it  was  as  instinctive  and  uncon- 
scious as  breathing.  For  such:  as  she,  shrines  like  this 
were  erected;  not  for  him!  So,  across  the  riot  in  his 
breast,  Gordon's  waked  habit  paused  to  smile — a  satire- 
smile,  at  itself,  at  the  new  sweet  flower  that  was  Kfting 
head  there  amidst  desert  ruins. 

The  girl  caught  the  mixed  feeling  in  his  face.  He 
was  not  Italian — ^his  accent  had  told  her  that.  He  was 
an  Englishman,  too,  perhaps.  "Do  you  know  him,  Sig- 
nore  ?' 

His  head  turned  quickly  toward  her.  In  truth,  had 
he  ever  really  known  himself?  'TTes,''  he  answered 
after  a  pause.  ^'I  know  him,  Signorina — far  better  than 
most  of  the  world.'' 

She  was  gazing  with  varied  feelings,  her  heart  beating 
strangely,  curiosity  and  wonder  merging.  In  her  few 
short  weeks  at  La  Mira,  fresh  from  the  convent,  the 
Englishman  of  whom  all  Venice  told  tales  had  been  but 
a  dim  and  unsubstantial  figure.  She  had  thought  of 
the  grim  Palazzo  Mocenigo  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  a 
child  regards  a  mysterious  cavern  bat-haunted  and 
shunned.  Into  her  poetic  world  of  dreams  had  fallen 
the  little  book,  and  thereafter  the  shadowy  figure  that 
roamed  nightly  Venice  had  taken  on  the  brilHant  and 
piteous  outline  of  a  fallen  angel.  Here,  wonderfully, 
was  a  man  who  knew  him,  whose  speech  could  visualize 
the  figure  that  had  grown  to  possess  such  fascination. 
Questions  were  on  her  tongue,  but  she  could  not  frame 


THE   CASTAWAY  185 

them.  She  hesitated,  opening  and  closing  the  book  in 
her  hands. 

*^Is  he  all  they  say  of  him  ?'' 

"Who  knows,  Signorina?'^  ^ 

It  was  an  involuntary  exclamation  that  sounded  like 
acquiescence.  The  girPs  face  fell.  In  her  thought,  the 
man  of  her  dreaming,  lacking  an  open  advocate,  had 
gained  the  secret  one  of  sympathy.  Was  it  all  true 
then?    Her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

"I  have  not  believed,  Signore,  that  with  a  heart  all 
evil  one  could  write — so  V 

Into  the  raw  blend  of  tangent  emotions  which  were 
enwrapping  Gordon,  had  entered,  as  she  spoke,  another 
well-defined.  Never  in  his  life,  for  his  own  sake,  had  he 
cared  whether  one  or  many  believed  truth  or  lie  of  him. 
But  now  there  thrilled  in  him,  new-born,  a  desire  that 
this  slight  girl  should  not  judge  him  as  did  the  world. 
The  feeling  lent  his  words  a  curious  energy : 

"Many  tales  are  told,  Signorina,  that  are  true — some 
that  are  false.  If  he  were  here — and  I  speak  from  cer- 
tain knowledge  of  him — ^he  would  not  wish  me  to  ex- 
tenuate ;  least  of  all  to  you  who  have  written  what  is  on 
that  leaf.  Perhaps  that  has  been  one  of  his  faults,  that 
he  has  never  justified  himself.  By  common  report  he 
has  committed  all  crimes,  Signorina.  He  has  thought 
it  useless  to  deny,  since  slander  is  not  guilt,  nor  is  de- 
nial innocence,  and  since  neither  good  nor  bad  report 
could  lighten  or  add  to  his  wretchedness." 

The  tint  of  her  clear  eyes  deepened.  "I  knew  he  was 
wretched,  Signore!  It  was  for  that  reason  I  left  the 
prayer  here  overnight  before  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows — ^be- 
cause I  have  heard  he  is  an  outcast  from  his  own  coun- 


186  THE    CASTAWAY 

try  and  his  own  people.  And  then,  because  of  this." 
She  touched  the  volume.  "Ah,  I  have  read  little  of  all 
he  has  written — ^this  is  the  only  poem — for  I  read  his 
English  tongue  so  poorly ;  but  in  this  his  heart  speaks, 
Signore.  It  speaks  of  pain  and  suffering  and  bondage. 
It  was  not  only  the  long-ago  prisoner  he  sang  of ;  it  was 
himself !  himself !    I  felt  it— here,  like  a  hurt.'' 

She  had  spoken  rapidly,  stumblingly,  and  ended  with 
a  hand  pressed  on  her  heart.  Her  own  feeling,  as  she 
suddenly  became  aware  of  her  vehemence,  startled  her, 
and  she  half  turned  away,  her  lips  trembling. 

A  sentiment  at  variance  with  his  whole  character  was 
fighting  in  Gordon.  The  Babel  he  had  builded  of  curses 
was  being  smitten  into  confusion.  Something  granite- 
like, mural  and  sealed  by  time,  was  breaking  and  melt- 
ing unaccountably  away.  His  face  was  turned  from 
hers — ^toward  the  slope  below,  where  the  river  bubbled 
and  sparkled.  When  he  spoke  it  was  in  words  choked 
and  impeded : 

"I  think  if  he  were  here — this  wicked  milord — he 
would  bless  you  for  that,  Signorina.  He  has  suffered, 
no  doubt.  Perhaps  if  there  had  been  more  who  felt 
what  he  wrote — as  you  have  felt, — if  there  had  been 
more  to  impute  good  of  him  rather  than  evil — I  am 
quite  sure  if  this  could  have  been,  Signorina,  he  would 
not  now  be  in  Venice  the  man  for  whom  you  have  writ- 
ten that  prayer.  I  know  him  well  enough  to  say  this.  It 
is  through  his  wretchedness  that  I  have  come  to  know 
him — ^because,  like  him,  I  am  a  wanderer.'' 

A  softer  light  suffused  her  cheek.  The  words  smote 
her  strangely.  His  pain-engraved  face  brought  a  mist 
to  her  eyes.     She  was  a  child  of  the  sun,  with  blood 


THE    CASTAWAY  187 

leaping  to  quick  response,  and  a  heart  a  well  of  undis- 
covered impulses.  The  wicked  milord's  form  lost  dis- 
tinction and  faded.  Here  was  a  being  mysterious, 
wretched,  too,  and  alone — ^not  intangible  as  was  he  of 
the  Palazzo  Mocenigo,  but  beside  her,  speaking  with  a 
voice  which  thrilled  every  nerve  of  her  sensitive  natuw. 
Unconsciously  she  drew  closer  to  him. 

At  that  moment  a  call  oame  under  the  bare  boughs: 
"Teresa!    Teresa!" 

She  drew  back.  "It  is  la  Coniessa"  she  said;  "I 
must  hasten,'^  and  started  quickly  through  the  trees. 

His  voice  overtook  her.  "Signorina!"  The  word 
vibrated.  "Will  you  give  me  the  prayer?"  He  had 
come  toward  her  as  she  stopped.  ^^There  is  a  charm  in 
such  things,  perhaps." 

T^  i  voice  called  again,  and  more  impatiently :  "Te- 
resa !" 

She  opened  the  book  and  tore  out  the  leaf  with  un- 
certain fingers.  As  he  took  it  his  hand  met  hers.  He 
bent  his  head  and  touched  it  with  his  lips.  She  flushed 
deeply,  then  turned  and  ran  through  the  naked  trees 
toward  the  villa  shielded  in  its  cypress  rows. 

The  girl  ran  breathlessly  to  the  terrace,  where  a  lady 
leaned  from  a  window  with  a  gently  chiding  tongue : 

"Do  they  teach  you  to  do  wholly  without  sleep  in  con- 
vents ?"  she  cried.  "Do  you  not  know  your  father  and 
Count  Guiccioli,  your  lord  and  master  to  be,  are  to  ar- 
rive to-day  from  Eavenna?  You  will  be  wilted  before 
the  evening." 

The  girl  entered  the  house. 

Under  the  olive  wood  a  man,  strangely  moved,  a  rus- 
tling paper  still  in  his  hand,  walked  back  with  quick 


188  .THE   CASTAWAY 

strides  to  his  gondola,  striving  to  exorcise  a  clmckling 
fiend  within  him,  who,  with  mocking  and  malignant 
emphasis,  kept  repeating: 

"Oh  blessed  Virgin,  Queen  of  the  most  holy  Eosaryl 
Intercede  and  obtain  for  me,  of  Thy  Son  our  Lord,  this 
^ace  I'' 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  WOMAN  OP  FIRE  AND  DREAMS 

From  the  moment  those  lips  touched  her  hand  in 
that  meeting  at  the  wood  shrine  Teresa  Gamba  felt  her 
life  unfold  to  rose-veined  visions. 

Her  unmothered  childhood  and  the  placid  convent 
school  years  at  Bagnacavallo,  near  Eavenna,  had  known 
no  mystery  other  than  her  day-dreams  had  fashioned. 
She  had  dreamed  much:  of  the  time  when  she  should 
marry  and  redeem  the  fortunes  of  her  house,  which, 
despite  untainted  blood  and  ancient  provincial  name, 
was  impoverished;  of  the  freedom  of  Italy,  the  sole 
topic,  aside  from  his  endless  chemical  experiments,  of 
which  her  father,  now  growing  feeble,  never  tired;  of 
her  elder  brother,  away  in  Wallachia,  secretary  to  the 
Greek  Prince  Mavrocordato ;  of  the  few  books  she  read, 
and  the  fewer  people  she  met.  But  these  dreams  had 
not  possessed  the  charm  of  novelty.  Even  when,  at 
eighteen,  through  family  friendship,  she  became  a 
member  of  the  Albrizzi  household  and  exchanged  the 
dull  convent  walls  for  the  garlanded  La  Mira — even 
with  those  rare  days  when  she  saw  the  gay  splendor  of 
Venice  from  a  curtained  gondola — even  then  her  mental 
life  suffered  small  change. 

(i89y 


190  THE   CASTAWAY 

The  marriage  arranged  for  her  with  Count  Guiccioli, 
the  oldest  and  richest  nobleman  of  Eavenna,  a  miser 
and  twice  a  widower,  had  aroused  an  interest  in  her 
mind  scarce  greater  than  had  the  tales  of  the  English- 
man of  the  Palazzo  Mocenigo.  Such  marriages  were  of 
common  occurrence  in  the  life  she  knew:  the  ^Vicked 
milord"  was  a  stranger  thing — one  to  speculate  more 
endlessly  upon. 

It  was  Tita,  the  gigantic  black-bearded  gondolier  and 
door-porter,  a  servant  in  the  Gamba  family  since  she 
was  born,  whom  she  had  brought  with  her  as  her  own 
attendant— one  who  worshiped  her  devoutly,  and  in 
whose  care  her  father  intrusted  her  more  confidently 
than  to  any  duenna — ^who  had  first  pointed  out  to  her 
the  gloomy  building  which  shielded  that  mysterious  oe* 
cupant,  and  had  piqued  her  interest  with  weird  tales: 
how  in  his  loneliness  for  human  kind  the  outcast  sur- 
rounded himself  with  tamed  ravens  and  paroquets,  and 
used  for  a  wine  cup  a  human  skull,  that  of  a  woman  he 
had  once  loved.  With  her  rapt  eyes  on  the  palazzo 
front,  Teresa  had  wondered  and  shuddered  in  never 
ending  surmise. 

The  little  volume  from  the  Paduan  press  had  deep- 
ened her  curiosity  and  given  it  virgin  fields  in  which  to 
wander.  The  English  books  in  her  father's  library  were 
prose  and  for  the  most  part  concerned  his  pet  hobb}'-, 
chemistry.  This  volume,  given  her  on  a  saint's  day  by 
the  Contessa  Albrizzi,  who  took  pride  in  her  protegee's 
scholarship,  was  her  first  glimpse  of  English  poetry,  and 
her  pulses  had  leaped  at  the  new  charm.  Thereafter  the 
personality  of  the  contradictory  being  who  had  written 
it  had  lived  in  her  daily  thought.     She  retained  the 


THE   CASTAWAY  191 

faiths  of  her  childhood  unshattered,  and  the  prayer  she 
had  left  at  the  shrine  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  sprang 
from  an  impulse  as  natural  as  it  was  significant. 

But  that  meeting  in  the  wood  had  turned  the  course 
of  her  imaginings.  "A  wanderer — like  him'';  the- 
words  had  bridged  the  chasm  between  the  dreaming  and 
the  real.  The  secret  thought  given  to  the  "wicked  mi- 
lord" found  itself  absorbed  by  a  nearer  object.  The 
palazzo  on  the  Grand  Canal  grew  more  remote,  and  the 
stranger  she  had  seen  stepped  at  a  single  stride  into  a 
place  her  mind  had  already  prepared. 

The  blush  with  which  she  had  taken  the  book  from 
Grordon's  hand  was  one  of  mere  self -consciousness ;  the 
vivid,  burning  color  which  overspread  her  face  as  she 
ran  back  through  the  trees  was  something  very  differ- 
ent. It  was  a  part  of  her  throbbing  heart,  of  the  trem- 
ulous confusion  that  overran  her  whole  body,  called  into 
life  by  the  touch  of  those  palely  carved  lips  upon  her 
fingers.  His  colorless  face — a  face  with  the  outline  of 
the  Apollo  Belvedere — ^the  gray  magnetic  eyes,  the 
words  he  had  said  and  their  accent  of  sadness,  all  were 
full  of  suggestive  mystery.  Why  was  he  a  wanderer — 
like  that  other  ?  Not  for  a  kindred  reason,  surely !  He 
could  not  be  evil  also!  Eather  it  must  have  been  be- 
cause of  some  loss,  some  hurt  of  love  which  time  might 
remedy. 

Her  agile  fancy  constructed  more  than  one  hypothe- 
sis, spun  more  than  one  romance,  all  of  like  ending. 
A  new  love  would  heal  his  heart.  Some  time  he  would 
look  into  a  woman's  eyes — ^not  as  he  had  looked  into 
hers ;  some  one  would  feel  his  lips — not  as  he  had  kissed 
her  hand.    She  in  the  meantime  would  be  no  longer  a 


192  THE    CASTAWAY 

girl ;  she  would  be  the  Contessa  Guiccioli,  with  a  palazzo 
of  her  own  in  Eavenna,  and — a  husband. 

But,  somehow,  this  reflection  brought  no  satisfaction. 
The  old  count  she  had  seen  more  than  once  driving  by 
in  state  when  she  played  as  a  child  in  the  convent 
woods;  and  that  he  with  his  riches  should  desire  her, 
had  given  her  father  great  pride,  which  was  reflected  in 
her.  Her  suitor  had  brought  his  age  and  ailments  to 
La  Mira  on  the  very  day  she  had  met  the  stranger  at 
the  shrine — ^the  day  her  heart  had  beat  so  oddly — and 
with  his  arrival,  her  marriage  had  projected  itself  out 
of  the  hazy  future  and  become  a  dire  thing  of  the  pres- 
ent. She  felt  a  fresh  distaste  of  his  sharp  yellow  eyes, 
his  cracked  laugh.  His  eighty  wiry  years  seemed  as 
many  centuries.  She  became  moody,  put  her  father  off 
and  took  refuge  in  whims.  The  contessa  advised  the 
city,  and  the  week's  end  saw  the  Albrizzi  palazzo  thrown 
open. 

In  Venice,  Teresa's  spirits  rose.  She  loved  to  watch 
the  bright  little  shops  opening  like  morning-glories,  the 
sky-faring  pigeons  a  silver  quiver  of  wings;  to  lie  in 
the  gondola  waiting  while  her  father  drank  his  brandy 
at  the  piazzetta  caffe;  to  buy  figs  from  little  lame  Pas- 
quale,  who  watched  for  her  at  a  shop-door  in  a  narrow 
calle  near  at  hand ;  to  see  the  gaudy  flotillas  of  the  car- 
nival, and  the  wedding  processions,  fresh  from  the 
church,  crossing  the  lagoon  to  leave  their  gifts  at  the 
various  island-convents;  or,  propelled  by  Tita's  swing- 
ing oar,  to  glide  slowly  in  the  purpling  sunset  shadows, 
by  the  Piazza  San  Marco,  around  red-towered  San 
Giorgio,  and  so  home  again  on  color-soaked  canals  in  the 
gleaming  ruby  of  the  afterglow,  through  a  city  bub- 


THE    CASTAWAY  193 

bling  with  ivory  domes  and  glistening  like  an  opal's 
heart  under  its  tiara  of  towers. 

She  scarcely  told  the  secret  to  her  own  heart — ^that  it 
was  one  face  she  looked  to  see,  one  mysterious  stranger 
whose  image  haunted  every  campo,  every  balcony  and  ev- 
ery bridge.  She  flushed  whenever  she  thought  of  that 
kiss  on  her  fingers ;  in  the  daytime  she  felt  it  there  like 
a  sentient  thing;  at  night  when  she  woke,  her  hand 
burned  her  cheek. 

Who  was  he?  Why  had  he  asked  her  for  the  prayer? 
What  had  he  done  with  it?  Was  he  still  in  Venice? 
Should  she  see  him  again?  She  wondered,  as,  parting 
the  gondola  tenda,  she  watched  her  father  cross  the 
pave  for  his  cognac. 

"Are  there  many  English  in  Venice,  Tita?'' 

The  gondolier,  lounging  like  a  brilliant-hued  lizard, 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  ^'Bellissima,  there  are  hun- 
dreds in  the  season.  They  come  and  go.  They  are  all 
lasagnoni,  these  Englishmen !'' 

Teresa's  sigh  checked  itself.  Tita  suddenly  turned 
his  head.  Across  the  piazzetta  a  crowd  was  gathering. 
It  centered  before  the  shop  at  whose  front  the  five-year- 
old  fig-seller  was  used  to  watch  for  her. 

"He  fell  from  the  scaffolding !"  said  a  voice. 

"If  it  should  be  little  Pasquale!"  cried  Teresa,  and 
springing  out,  ran  quickly  forward.  Tita  waited  to 
secure  the  gondola  before  he  followed  her. 

A  sad  accident  had  happened.  Before  the  cdlle  a 
platform  had  been  erected  from  which  spectators  might 
watch  the  flotillas  of  the  carnival.  Little  Pasquale's  de- 
light was  a  tame  sparrow,  whose  home  was  a  wicker 
cage,  and  climbing  to  sun  his  pet  when  he  had  been  left 


194  THE    CASTAWAY 

to  tend  the  empty  shop,  the  child  had  slipped  and  fallen 
to  the  pavement. 

Teresa  broke  through  the  circle  of  bystanders  and 
knelt  by  the  tumbled  little  body,  looking  at  the  tiny 
face  now  so  waxen.  The  neighbors  thronged  about, 
stupefied  and  hindering.  A  woman  ran  to  fetch  the 
mother,  gossiping  with  a  neighbor.  Another  called  loud- 
ly for  a  priest. 

The  girl,  looking  up,  was  bewildered  by  the  tumult. 
^^He  must  be  got  in,"  she  murmured,  half  helplessly,  for 
the  people  ringed  them  round. 

A  voice  answered  close  beside  her :  "I  will  carry  him, 
Signorina" — and  a  form  she  knew  bent  beside  her,  and 
very  gently  lifted  the  small  bundle  in  his  arms. 

Teresa's  heart  bounded.  Through  these  days  she  had 
longed  to  hear  that  voice  again  how  vainly!  Now,  in 
this  moment,  she  was  brought  suddenly  close  to  him. 
She  ceased  to  hear  the  soimds  about  her — saw  only  him. 
She  sprang  up  and  led  the  way  through  the  press,  down 
the  close  damp  calle  and  to  the  shop  where  the  child 
lived. 

"Dog  of  the  Virgin!  He  need  touch  no  finger  to 
child  of  mine!''  swore  a  carpenter  from  the  adjoining 
campo. 

"Nor  mine!" 

'^Why  didn't  you  carry  him  in  yourself,  then?" 
growled  Giuseppe,  the  fruit-vender.  "Standing  there 
like  a  bronze  pig !  What  have  you  against  the  English- 
man ?  Didn't  he  buy  your  brother-in-law  a  new  gondola 
when  the  piling  smashed  it  ?" 

''Scellerator  sneered  the  carpenter.     "Why  is  his 


THE    CASTAWAY  195 

face  so  white?  Like  a  potato  sprout  in  a  cellar!  He 
is  so  evil  he  fears  the  sun !" 

The  fruit-vender  turned  away  disdainfully.  His  foot 
kicked  a  shapeless  wicker  object — ^it  was  little  Pasquale's 
cage  smashed  flat.  The  sparrow  inside  was  gasping.  He 
picked  up  the  cage  and  carried  it  to  the  shop. 

In  the  inner,  ill-lighted  room,  Gordon  laid  the  child 
on  a  couch.  He  had  spoken  no  further  word  to  Teresa. 
At  the  first  sight  of  her,  kneeling  in  the  street,  he  had 
started  visibly  as  he  had  done  in  the  forest  of  La  Mira 
when  he  recognized  her  face  as  that  of  the  miniature. 
Now  he  was  feeling  her  presence  beside  him  with  a 
curious  thrill  not  unlike  her  own — a  pleasure  deeply 
mixed  with  pain  that  was  almost  a  physical  pang. 

Since  that  dawn  walk  above  the  plane-treed  Brenta  he 
had  been  treading  strange  ways.  In  the  hours  that  fol- 
lowed, remorse  had  been  born  in  him.  And  as  the  first 
indrawn  breath  racks  the  half-drowned  body  with  agony 
greater  than  that  of  the  death  it  has  already  tasted,  so 
the  man  had  suffered.  During  a  fortnight,  words  writ- 
ten on  a  sheet  of  paper  that  he  carried  in  his  pocket  had 
rung  through  his  brain.  Day  after  day,  as  he  sat  in  his 
gloomy  palazzo,  he  had  heard  them;  night  after  night 
they  had  floated  with  him  as  his  gondola  bore  him 
through  the  waterways  ringing  with  the  estro  of  the  car- 
nival. To  escape  them  he  had  fled  again  and  again  to 
the  black  phial,  but  when  he  awoke  the  pain  was  still 
with  him,  instinct  and  unrenounceable.  It  was  more 
acute  at  this  moment  than  it  had  ever  been. 

Teresa  scarcely  noted  the  fruit-vender  as  he  put  the 
battered  cage  into  her  hand  just  before  its  feathered 
occupant  breathed  its  last.    Her  look,  fixed  on  Gordon, 


196  THE    CASTAWAY 

was  still  eloquent  with  the  surprise.  She  saw  the  same 
pale  face,  the  same  deep  eyes,  the  same  chiselled  curve 
of  lips.  His  voice,  too,  as  he  despatched  the  kind- 
hearted  Giuseppe  for  a  surgeon  on  the  Kiva,  had  the 
same  cadence  of  sadness.  She  had  noticed  that  his  step 
halted  as  he  walked,  as  though  from  weakness.  And 
surely  there  was  illness  in  his  face,  too!  Had  there 
been  any  tender  hands  near  him — as  tender  as  those 
with  which  he  now  examined  the  unconscious  child  ? 

As  Gordon  bent  above  him,  little  Pasquale  opened  his 
eyes.  His  gaze  fell  first  not  on  the  man  or  on  Teresa, 
but  on  the  broken  cage  beside  him,  where  the  bird  lay 
still,  one  claw  standing  stiffly  upright.  He  tried  to  lift 
his  head,  and  called  the  sparrow's  name. 

There  was  no  answering  chirp.  The  claw  was  very 
still. 

Then  little  Pasquale  saw  the  faces  about  him  and 
knew  what  had  happened. 

"He's  dead  V  he  shrilled,  and  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTEE  XXVII 

THE  EVIL  EYE 

Tears,  too,  had  rushed  to  Teresa^s  eyes,  with  a  sweet, 
glad  sense  of  something  not  akin  to  grief.  Her  hand 
on  the  couch  in  the  semi-darkness  touched  another  and 
she  drew  it  away,  trembling. 

Suddenly  a  wail  came  from  the  cdlle,  a  hurried  step 
crossed  the  shop  floor,  and  the  slattern  mother  burst 
into  the  room.  Close  behind  followed  Tita,  who,  seeing 
his  mistress,  blocked  the  inner  door  with  his  huge  frame 
against  the  curious,  with  whom  the  place  now  over- 
flowed. 

The  weeping  woman  had  thrown  herself  beside  the 
couch  where  the  child  lay,  his  eyes  closed  again.  All  tt 
once  she  saw  the  man  who  stood  above  her,  and  to  Te- 
resa's astonishment  sprang  up  and  spat  out  coarse  im- 
precations. 

''The  evil  eye!''  she  screamed.  ''Take  the  Inglese 
away  and  fetch  some  holy  water !    He  has  the  evil  eye  ?' 

Teresa  saw  the  spasm  of  pain  that  crossed  the  color- 
less face.    "No,  no !"  she  cried. 

"What  did  I  say !"  sneered  the  carpenter. 

Tita's  great  hand  took  him  by  the  throat,  "Silence, 
(197) 


198  THE   CASTAWAY 

devout  jellyfish!''  he  said,  '^or  I  crack  your  skull. 
Didn't  you  hear  the  signorina  ?" 

"The  evil  eye !"  wailed  the  woman,  flinging  back  inky 
hair  from  her  brows.  "He  looked  at  the  heart-of-my- 
life  or  he  would  not  have  fallen !" 

"For  shame!"  protested  Teresa  indignantly.  "He 
who  carried  him  in  his  own  arms !  Ah,  do  not  listen !" 
She  turned  to  Gordon  appealingly.  "She  is  mad  to  say 
such  things!  Let  us  go,"  she  added  hastily,  as  mur- 
murs swelled  from  the  shop.    "We  can  do  no  more !" 

"Go,  son  of  the  Black  One!"  screamed  the  woman. 
"Go  before  my  child  dies !" 

Gordon  had  distinguished  in  the  girl's  voice  a  note 
of  pity  and  of  fear  for  his  safety,  and  a  flash  of  smile 
softened  the  bitterness  of  his  lips. 

"You  are  right,  Signorina,"  he  answered,  and  pre- 
ceded her.  The  people  parted  as  they  passed,  some  peer- 
ing maliciously,  some  shame-faced.  Tita,  bringing  up 
the  rear,  glared  about  him,  his  fist  clenched  like  a  ham- 
mer. He  knew  well  enough  who  the  stranger  was,  but 
his  signorina  walked  with  him  and  that  was  sufficient. 
Tita  knew  what  was  expected  of  him. 

It  was  growing  dusky  as  they  emerged.  The  group 
before  the  shop  had  run  to  watch  the  great  surgeon 
alighting  at  the  water-stairs.  The  dozen  steps  that 
brought  them  to  the  open  piazzetta  they  walked  in  si- 
lence. 

There  Teresa  paused,  wishing  to  say  she  knew  not 
what,  burning  with  sympathy,  yet  timid  with  confusion. 
The  street  seemed  to  wear  an  unwonted,  un-everyday 
luster,  yet  she  knew  that  around  the  corner  lay  little 
Pasquale  woefully  hurt,  in  full  view  Tita  was  unlash- 


THE   CASTAWAY  199 

ing  the  gondola,  and  across  the  piazzetta  she  could  see 
the  entrance  of  the  cajfe  where  her  father  was  sipping 
his  cognac.  A  fear  lest  the  latter  should  appear  and 
find  her  absent  from  the  gondola  mixed  with  the  wave 
of  feeling  with  which  she  held  out  her  hand  to  the  man 
beside  her. 

"Poor  little  fig-merchant!^'  she  said — the  scene  with 
the  mother  was  too  painfully  recent  to  touch  upon  at 
once.  ^^He  watched  for  my  gondola  every  day.  I  hope 
he  is  not  badly  hurt.    What  do  you  think,  Signore  ?" 

"No  bones  were  broken/'  he  rejoined.  "But  as  to 
internal  injury,  I  could  not  tell.  I  shall  hope  doubly 
for  him,''  he  added,  "since  you  love  him." 

Her  eyes  sought  the  ground,  suddenly  shy.  "I  have 
loved  him  from  the  first.  You  know,  he  cannot  play 
like  other  children.  He  is  lame ;  I  think  that  is  why  I 
love  him." 

Gordon's  lips  compressed,  his  cheeks  flushed  with  an 
odd  sensitiveness  that  had  long  been  calloused.  But  he 
saw  instantly  that  the  remark  had  been  innocent  of  al- 
lusion. A  weird  forgotten  memory  shot  jaggedly 
through  his  brain.  Years  ago — ^how  many  years  ago ! — 
he  had  overheard  a  girl's  voice  repeat  a  mocking  an- 
tithesis :  'T)o  you  think  I  could  ever  care  for  that  lame 
boy  ?"  This  girl  facing  him  had  the  same  fair  hair  and 
blue  eyes  of  that  boyish  love  of  his.  The  resemblance 
caught  him.  Was  it  this  that  had  haunted  him  in  the 
miniature?  Was  this  subconscious  influence  what  had 
inspired  at  La  Mira  his  aching  desire  that  she  should 
not  think  worse  of  him  than  might  be  ? 

Her  voice  recalled  him.  She  had  not  understood  that 
veiled  look,  but  it  brought  to  her  lips  what  had  been 


200  THE    CASTAWAY 

nearest  to  her  thought — ^the  resentment  and  regret  that 
the  virago's  shrilling  voice  had  roused. 

''What  must  you  think  of  our  Venice,  Signore!"  she 
eaid.  "But  they  knew  no  better — ^those  poor  people. 
They  cannot  tell  evil  from  good.'' 

*'It  is  no  matter,  Signorina/'  Gordon  answered.  "Do 
not  give  it  a  thought.    It  was  not  unnatural,  perhaps.'' 

"Not  unnatural !"  she  echoed.  "Natural  to  think  you 
evil?  Ah,  Signore — ^when  your  every  touch  was  kind- 
ness !    Could  she  not  see  in  your  face  ?" 

She  paused  abruptly,  coloring  under  his  gaze. 

The  words  and  the  flush  had  cut  him  like  a  knife. 
The  lines  of  ravage  he  had  challenged  in  the  mirror 
her  innocence  had  misread.  In  the  olive  wood  she  had 
seen  only  wretchedness,  here  only  mercy. 

"The  face  is  a  sorry  index,  sometimes,  Signorina. 
In  mine  the  world  may  not  see  what  you  see." 

He  had  schooled  his  tone  to  lightness,  but  her  mood, 
still  tense-drawn,  felt  its  strain.  She  spoke  impulsive- 
ly, bravely,  her  heart  beating  hard. 

"What  I  see  there — it  is  pain,  not  evil,  Signore;  sor- 
row, .  but  not  all  your  own ;  loneliness  and  regret  and 
feelings  that  people  like  those" — she  threw  out  her  hand 
in  a  passionate  gesture  toward  the  shop — "can  never 
understand !" 

"It  is  not  only  such  as  they!"  he  interposed.  "The 
world,  your  world,  would  not  understand,  either.  It  is 
only  here  and  there  one  finds  one — like  you,  Signorina 
— with  sympathy  as  pure  as  yours." 

Her  face  had  turned  the  tint  that  autumn  paints 
wild  strawberry  leaves,  a  rich  translucent  flush  that 
deepened  the  light  in  her  eyes.    It  was  a  lyric  world  to- 


THE   CASTAWAY  201 

day !  Just  then  Tita's  voice  spoke  warningly  from  the 
water-side.  She  looked  around,  and  through  the  gath- 
ering shadows,  saw  her  father's  form  standing  in  the 
door  of  the  cajfe  across  the  piazzetta. 

"Oh!''  she  said  confusedly,  and  turning,  hastily 
crossed  the  pavement  to  the  gondola. 

Tita's  oar  swung  vigorously  on  the  return,  for 
Count  Gamba  was  in  haste.  He  was  voluble,  but  Teresa, 
as  she  looked  out  through  the  curtains,  was  inattentive. 

Swiftly  as  they  went,  a  gondola  outstripped  them 
on  the  canal.  It  held  the  low-browed  carpenter  whom 
Tita  had  throttled  in  the  shop.  In  addition  to  a  super- 
stitious mind,  the  carpenter  possessed  a  malicious  tongue 
and  loved  a  sensation.  He  knew  that  the  father  of 
little  Pasquale  was  at  work  that  day  on  the  Giudecca. 
'As  the  doctor  had  driven  all  save  the  mother  from  the 
shop,  there  was  little  profit  to  be  got  by  remaining.  He 
therefore  hastened  to  bear  the  news  to  the  quay  where 
the  stone  masons  labored  overtime.  He  had  drawn  his 
own  conclusions.  The  child  was  mortally  hurt — dying, 
doubtless — and  as  he  revolved  in  his  mind  the  words 
with  which  he  should  make  the  announcement  to  the 
father,  the  wicked  milord  and  his  evil  eye  entered  with 
all  their  dramatic  values. 

Teresa  noted  the  speed  of  the  gondola  as  it  passed  to 
tie  to  the  rising  wall,  saw  the  gesticulations  of  the  blue- 
clad  workmen  as  the  man  it  bore  told  his  story.  Even 
in  the  failing  light  she  saw  the  gesture  of  grief  and 
despair  with  which  one,  the  center  of  all  eyes,  threw 
up  his  arms  and  sank  down  on  to  the  stones,  his  head 
in  his  hands.  As  her  father's  gondola  swept  by,  the 


202  THE    CASTAWAY 

figure  sprang  up  suddenly  and  his  brown  hand  flew  to 
his  belt. 

^^My  Pasquale— dead!"  he  shouted;  "I'll  kill  the 
Inglese !" 

Teresa  stifled  a  cry.  Her  father  had  seen  and  heard 
also,  though  he  did  not  know  the  explanation.  Nor 
could  he  have  guessed  what  an  icy  fear  had  gripped  the 
heart  of  the  girl  beside  him. 

"An  ugly  lookP'  he  muttered,  as  the  frantic  form 
scrambled  into  the  carpenter's  craft. 

Teresa  could  not  speak.  Her  horrified  gaze  was  on 
the  sinister  face,  the  red  cap  like  a  sans-culotte,  the  eye 
glancing  under  it  tigerishly.  Little  Pasquale  was  dead 
then!  The  father  blamed  the  Englishman.  His  look 
was  one  of  murder !  He  would  kill  him — of  whom  she 
had  thought  and  dreamed,  the  man  in  whose  heart  had 
been  only  tenderness!  Kill  him?  A  panging  dread 
seized  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  must  cry  out ;  and  all  the 
time  Tita's  oar  swept  her  on  through  the  dusk,  further 
away  from  him  whom  danger  threatened — ^him  whom, 
in  some  way,  no  matter  how,  she  must  warn ! 

A  strange  helplessness  descended  upon  her.  She  did 
not  even  know  his  name,  of  his  habitation.  To  her  he 
was  but  one  of  the  hundreds  Tita  had  said  were  in 
Venice.  That  the  gondolier  himself  could  have  en- 
lightened her  did  not  cross  her  mind.  She  felt  the  im- 
possibility of  appealing  to  her  father — she  had  not  even 
dared  tell  him  she  had  left  the  gondola.  What  could  she 
do  ?  Trust  to  Tita  to  find  him  ?  Could  he  know  every 
line  of  that  face  as  did  she?  Even  in  the  dark — ^in 
crowds — she  told  herself  that  she  would  know  him, 
would  somehow  feel  his  presence.    But  how  to  do  it? 


THE    CASTAWAY  203 

How  to  elude  the  surveillance  at  home?  And  if  she 
could  do  so,  where  to  look  for  him  ? 

Her  reverie  was  broken  by  the  gondola's  bumping 
against  the  landing.  Her  father's  talk  had  been  run- 
ning on  like  a  flowing  spout. 

"A  palazzo  in  Ravenna  finer  than  this,"  he  was  say- 
ing, "and  you  the  Contessa  Guiccioli !  Shall  we  not  be 
proud — eh,  my  Teresa?" 

She  realized  suddenly  of  what  he  had  been  babbling. 
As  she  disembarked  at  the  water-stairs,  she  looked  up 
at  the  balcony.  There,  beside  the  stately  Contessa  Al- 
brizzi,  an  old  man  was  leaning,  hawk-eyed,  white-haired 
and  thin.    He  blew  her  a  kiss  from  his  sallow  fingers. 

Her  nervous  tension  relaxed  in  a  sudden  quiver  of 
aversion. 

"No,  no !"  she  said  in  a  choked  voice,  with  clenched 
fingers.  "I  will  not  marry  till  I  choose!  Why  must 
every  one  be  in  such  haste  ?" 

And  with  these  broken  sentences,  that  left  her  father 
standing  in  blank  astonishment,  she  hurried  before  him 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  HAUNTED  MAN 

The  majestic  gateway  of  the  Palazzo  Mocenigo  was 
dark  as  Gordon  entered  save  for  the  single  lamp  always 
lit  at  nightfall.  Fletcher  served  his  master's  supper 
in  the  great  upper  room,  but  to-night,  as  too  often  hap- 
pened, it  was  scarcely  tasted.  Long  after  the  valet  had 
retired,  his  watchful  ear  heard  the  uneven  step  pacing 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  on  the  echoing  floor. 

A  restless  mood  was  upon  Gordon,  the  restlessness  of 
infinite  yearning  and  discontent.  He  was  tasting  anew 
the  gall  and  wormwood  of  self-reproach. 

He  had  felt  the  touch  of  Teresa's  hand  as  it  lay 
against  the  couch  in  that  squalid  room — had  known  it 
trembled — and  the  low  words  she  had  spoken  in  the 
street,  standing,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  with  that  forest 
shrine  ever  for  background,   were   still   in  his   ears. 

He  had  seen  her  but  twice,  for  but  a  few  brief  mo- 
ments. Once  she  had  come  to  him  on  the  wings  of  a 
prayer;  and  again  to-day  over  the  hurt  body  of  a  child. 
Each  meeting  had  touched  the  raw  nerve  in  him  which 
had  first  throbbed  to  anguish  at  sight  of  her  miniature. 
Each  time  he  had  heard  a  voice  call  to  him  as  if  it  were 
the  ghost  of  some  buried  thing  he  had  one  day  known 
and  lost,  speaking  a  tongue  sweet  though  untranslatable. 

(204) 


THE   CASTAWAY  205 

Hours  went  by.  Gordon's  step  flagged.  He  ap- 
proached the  desk  on  which  were  scattered  distraught 
leaves  of  manuscript,  blotted  and  interlined.  He  swept 
these  into  his  hand  and  read  for  a  moment.  Beneath 
the  outer  crust  of  flippancy  and  satire  a  strange  new 
development  had  begun.  But  the  mental  habit  had 
persisted  strong  during  the  moral  houleversement,  as 
the  polar  glaze  spreads  its  algid  mockery  above  the 
warm  currents  of  an  Arctic  spring.  How  his  muse  had 
bemocked  him,  he  thought.  A  drama  of  madness, 
whose  dramatis  personae  were  magicians  and  spirits  of 
the  nether  world — stanzas  hovering  between  insane 
laughter  and  heart-broken  sobs,  between,  supplications 
and  blasphemies — cantos  whose  soul  was  license,  though 
their  surpassing  music  thrilled  like  the  laughter  of  a 
falling  Lucifer ! 

He  flung  the  sheets  down,  went  to  the  window  and 
threw  it  open,  leaning  out  across  the  balcony  that  hung 
over  the  canal.  It  was  a  night  of  Italian  sorcery,  the 
sky  an  infinite  wistaria  canopy  nailed  with  white-blown 
stars;  of  musical  water  shimmering  into  broken  bits  of 
moon;  of  misty  silver  air.  Around  and  beneath  him 
spread  the  enchanted  city,  a  marvel  of  purple  and  moth- 
er-of-pearl, a  jewel  in  verd  and  porphyry.  Gondolas, 
dim  in  the  muffled  shadow,  or  ablaze  with  strung  lan- 
terns and  echoing  with  tinkling  virginals  and  softer 
laughter,  glided  below,  on  their  way  to  the  masked  ball 
of  the  Cavalchina.  The  fleeting  thrill,  the  bubble  pag- 
eant; what  did  they  all — what  did  anything  mean  now 
for  him  ? 

Looking  out,  Gordon's  gaze  went  far.    He  had  a  vi- 


206.  THE    CASTAWAY 

sion  of  England  as  he  had  last  seen  it  across  the  jasper 
channel — ^green  fields  and  white  cliffs  in  a  smother  of 
vapors;  of  London  with  its  pomp,  its  power,  its  calum- 
nies, its  wicked  magical  vitality.  And  he  spoke  to  it, 
murmuring  sentences  not  sneering  now,  but  broken  with 
a  stranger  soft  emotion : 

''What  you  have  done — ^you  island  of  home!  If  I 
could  tell  you!  I  had  the  immortal  flame — the  touch 
of  the  divine!  It  was  mine — all  mine,  for  the  world! 
You  took  me — ^my  boyhood  and  embittered  it,  my  youth 
and  debauched  it,  my  manhood  and  robbed  it!  You 
jeered  my  first  songs  and  it  stung  me,  and  when  I 
cried  out  in  pain,  you  laughed  and  flattered.  When 
you  tired  of  me,  you  branded  me  with  this  mark  and 
cast  me  out !"  He  turned  again  to  the  desk  where  lay 
the  manuscript.  ''What  I  write  now  has  the  mark  of 
the  beast !  It  is  the  seraph's  song  with  the  satyr  laugh 
cutting  up  through  it,  and  the  cloven  hoof  of  the  devil 
of  hatred  that  will  not  down  in  me !  And  yet  I  wrote 
the  poem  that  she  loves !  I  wrote  that — I !  My  God ! 
It  was  only  two  years  ago!  And  now — shall  I  never 
hear  that  voice  singing  in  my  soul  again?  Shall  I 
never  write  so  again  ?    Never — ^never — never  ?" 

A  pungent,  heavy  smell  of  flowers  filled  his  nostrils. 
He  turned  from  the  window,  quivering.  Fletcher  had 
entered  behind  him  and  was  arranging  a  mass  of  bloomtJ 
in  a  bowl. 

The  Fornarinaf  She  had  returned  from  Naples, 
then.  It  was  her  barbaric  way  of  announcing  her  com- 
ing, for  she  could  not  write.  She  had  been  absent  a 
month — ^how  much  had  happened  in  that  month ! 

The  man,  with  the  excoriate  surface  of  recollection 


THE   CASTAWAYi  207. 

exposed,  witH  the  quick  of  remorse  laid  open,  suddenly 
could  not  bear  it.  He  threw  a  cloak  about  him  and 
went  rapidly  down  to  the  water-stairs. 

The  gondolier  came  running  to  the  steps^  catching 
up  the  long  oar  as  he  sprang  to  position. 

''Whither,  Excellence?''  he  asked. 

A  burst  of  music,  borne  on  the  air  across  roofs  and 
up  echoing  canals,  came  faintly  to  Gordon  from  the  far- 
away Square  of  St.  Mark. 

''To  the  Piazza,''  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


Teresa,  meanwhile,  had  been  facing  her  problem — 
how  to  warn  the  Englishman  of  his  danger.  During 
the  slow  hours  while  Gordon  sat  gazing  into  the  dis- 
torted mirror  of  his  own  thought,  she  had  traversed 
every  causeway  of  risk,  sounded  every  well  of  possibil- 
ity. To  a  young  girl  of  the  higher  class  in  Venice,  a 
night  trip,  uncavaliered,  held  elements  of  grave  peril. 
Discovery  spelled  lasting  disgrace  perhaps,  certainly  the 
anger  of  her  father.  All  this  she  was  ready  to  hazard. 
But  beyond  was  the  looming  probability  that  she  could 
not  find  the  object  of  her  search  after  all.  However,  it 
was  a  chance,  and  fear,  with  another  sentiment  that  she 
did  not  analyze,  impelled  her  to  take  it. 

It  was  an  easy  task  to  win  Tita,  for  he  would  have  de- 
nied her  nothing.  To  him,  however,  she  told  only  a 
part  of  the  truth — ^that  she  wished  once  to  see  the  Pi- 
azza by  night.  Only  an  hour  in  the  music  and  lights  iu 
his  care,  and  then  quick  and  safe  return  to  the  Palazzo 
Albrizzi.  The  house  servants  she  could  answer  for. 
Who  would  be  the  wiser  ? 

So,  a  little  while  after  Gordon  had  been  set  down 
that  night  at  the  Molo,  another  gondola,  lampless  and 
with  drawn  tenda,  stole  swiftly  to  a  side  landing,  and 

(208) 


THE    CASTAWAY  209! 

Teresa,  closely  veiled,  with  Tita  by  her  side,  stepped 
into  the  square,  beneath  the  flare  of  its  flambeaux,  into 
its  currents  of  eddying  maskers  where  the  white  fazzioli 
of  the  lower  orders  mingled  with  the  rich  costumes  of 
patricians,  all  alike  stung  by  the  tarantula  of  gaiety: 
a  flashing  sea  of  motion  and  color  surging  endlessly  be- 
neath a  sky  alive  with  winged  spots  of  gray  and  black — • 
the  countless  pigeons  that  circled  there  undisturbed. 

She  had  chosen  the  Piazza  after  much  deliberation. 
It  was  the  last  night  of  the  carnival,  when  all  the  world 
of  Venice  was  on  the  streets.  At  the  new  Fenice  Thea- 
ter the  latest  opera  of  Eossini^s  was  playing,  and  there 
was  the  ball  of  the  Cavalchina,  the  final  throb  before 
the  dropping  of  the  pall  of  Lent.  The  sadness  in  Gor- 
don's face  and  speech,  she  felt,  had  no  part  in  these 
things.  She  felt  instinctively  that  he  would  be  spec- 
tator rather  than  actor,  would  choose  the  open  air  of 
the  square  rather  than  the  indoors.  The  danger  she 
feared  for  him  would  not  seek  him  in  a  crowd ;  it  would 
lurk  in  some  silent  byway  and  strike  unseen.  The 
thought  made  her  tremble  as  she  peered  about  her. 

The  center  of  the  Piazza  was  a  pool,  fed  and  emptied 
by  three  streams  of  people :  one  flowing  under  the  clock- 
tower  with  its  blue  and  gold  dial  and  bronze  figures, 
one  through  the  west  entrance  under  the  Bocca  di 
Piazza,  and  still  another  rounding  the  Doges'  Palace 
and  meeting  the  thronged  Eiva.  It  was  on  the  fringe  of 
this  second  stream  that  she  saw  him,  when  the  hour  was 
almost  ended.  He  was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pillars,  watching,  she  thought,  yet  abstracted.  With  a 
whispered  word  to  Tita  she  ran  and  touched  the  move- 
less figure  on  the  arm. 


210.  THE   CASTAWAY] 

Gordon  turned  instantly,  and  turning,  spoke  her  name 
half-aloud.  "Teresa !"  The  utterance  was  almost  auto- 
matic, the  lips,  startled,  voicing  the  word  that  was  in  his 
mind  at  the  moment. 

She  thought  he  recognized  her  through  the  veil,  and 
answered  with  a  cry  expressing  at  one  time  her  relief 
at  finding  him,  and  a  quick  delight  that  thrilled  her  at 
the  sound  of  her  name  on  his  lips.  Many  things  had 
wrought  together  to  produce  this  new  miracle  of  glad- 
ness. The  strangeness  and  romance  of  their  first  meet- 
ing, the  tragedy  of  loneliness  she  had  guessed  in  the 
scene  at  the  shop,  her  dread  and  the  physical  risk  en- 
tailed in  her  adventure  of  this  night,  all  had  combined 
with  cunning  alchemy.  When  he  spoke  she  forgot  to  be 
surprised  that  he  had  called  her  by  name,  forgot  that  she 
did  not  know  his,  forgot  everything  save  his  presence 
and  her  errand. 

He  leaned  forward,  breathing  deeply.  It  was  she! 
She  put  her  veil  aside  quickly — ^her  eyes  were  like 
sapphire  stones ! — and  told  him  hurriedly  of  the  threat 
she  had  heard,  of  her  dread,  all  in  a  rush  of  sentences 
incoherent  and  unstudied. 

"And  so  you  came  to  warn  me  ?' 

"He  would  do  it,  Signore !  Ah,  I  saw  his  face  when 
he  said  it.  You  must  be  guarded!  You  must  not  go 
abroad  alone  I" 

His  mind  was  busy.  How  much  she  had  jeopardized 
to  reach  him  in  that  fancied  danger!  She,  in  Venice, 
a  young  girl  of  noble  rank,  with  no  escort  save  a  gondo- 
lier !  Risk  enough  for  her  in  any  case ;  what  an  endur- 
ing calamity  if  she  should  be  seen  and  recognized  there, 
with  him! 


THE   CASTAWAY  211 

He  led  her  back  between  the  pillars,  put  out  his  hand 
and  drew  the  veil  again  across  her  face,  speaking  grave- 
ly and  gently : 

"What  you  have  done  is  a  brave  and  noble  thing ;  one 
I  shall  be  glad  of  always.  It  was  no  less  courageous, 
nor  am  I  less  grateful,  though  what  you  heard  was  a 
mistake.  Little  Pasquale  is  not  dead.  I  spoke  with  the 
surgeon  here  less  than  a  half-hour  ago.  He  had  just 
come  from  the  piazzetta.    The  child  will  recover/' 

"Oh,  thank  God!'^  she  breathed.  She  clasped  her 
hands  in  very  abandonment.  "The  blessed  Virgin  has 
heard  me  V 

His  heart  seemed  suddenly  to  cease  beating.  The  ex- 
clamation was  a  revelation  far  deeper  than  she  divined. 
It  was  not  joy  at  the  life  of  the  child  that  was  deepest 
in  it — it  was  something  else:  a  great  relief  for  Mmf 
He  felt  the  blood  tingle  to  his  finger-tips.  Only  one 
emotion  could  speak  in  such  an  accent — only  one ! 

With  an  uncontrollable  impulse  he  leaned  to  her  and 
clasped  both  her  hands. 

"You  cared,  Teresa,"  he  said.  ^TTou,  risked  so  much 
—for  me?" 

He  had  spoken  her  name  again.  Again  she  felt  the 
stab  of  that  quivering  spear  of  gladness.  Her  fingers 
fluttered  in  his. 

^Y'es — ^yes!"  she  whispered.  The  shouts,  the  music, 
the  surge  and  laughter  around,  faded.  She  felt  herself, 
unafraid,  drifting  on  a  sea  of  unplummetted  depths. 

A  shock  of  fright  brought  her  to  herself.  A  man 
bent  and  dressed  richly,  with  an  affectation  of  youth,  was 
passing,  attended  by  a  servant.  As  they  approached, 
the  keen-eyed  servitor  had  pointed  out  Gordon.    "That 


S13  THE    CASTAWAY 

is  the  evil  Englishman,  Excellence,  of  whom  you  have 
heard/'  he  had  said,  and  the  old  noble  he  led  had  set  his 
keen  eyes  on  the  other  with  a  chuckling  relish. 

Teresa,  in  the  momentary  pause  they  made,  hardly 
repressed  a  cry,  for  that  moment  discovery  seemed  to  her 
imminent.  The  old  man  was  the  Count  Guiccioli — ^he 
who  had  leaned  that  afternoon  from  the  palazzo  balcony. 
Her  pulses  leaped  to  panic.  She  felt  as  if  that  sharp 
gaze  must  go  through  the  veil,  and  pressed  closer  to 
Gordon. 

But  master  and  servant  passed  on,  and  her  fear  faint- 
ed out. 

The  man  beside  her  had  felt  that  quick  pressure,  and 
instinctively  the  touch  of  his  arm  reassured  her,  though 
he  had  not  surmised  her  alarm.  In  that  instant  Gordon 
had  been  thinking  like  lightning.  A  temptation  had 
sprung  full-statured  before  him.  In  a  flash  he  had 
read  the  dawning  secret  behind  those  eyes,  the  sweet  un- 
spoken things  beneath  those  trembling  lips  crimson- 
soft  as  poppy  leaves.  To  possess  this  heart  for  his  own ! 
Not  to  tell  her  who  he  was — ^not  yet,  when  her  purity 
would  shrink — ^to  nurture  this  budding  regard  with 
meetings  like  this,  stolen  from  fate — ^to  cherish  it  till 
it  burst  into  flower  for  him,  all  engrossing,  supreme! 
To  make  this  love,  fluttering  to  him  unsought  in  the 
purlieus  of  his  souFs  despair,  his  solace  and  his  sanctu- 
ary! 

Coincidence  grappled  with  him — a  stealthy  persua- 
sion. In  the  crisis  of  his  madness,  when  at  Geneva  he 
had  cursed  every  good  thing,  her  pictured  face  had 
sought  him  out  to  go  with  him.  Into  the  nadir  of  his 
degradation  there  in  Venice  it  had  dropped  like  a  fall- 


THE   CASTAWAY  213 

ing  star  to  call  him  to  himself.  Fate  had  led  him  to 
her  in  the  woods  of  La  Mira — had  brought  them  both 
face  to  face  at  the  shop  in  the  piazzetta — and  now  had 
led  her  to  him  again  here  in  the  midst  of  the  maskers. 
It  was  Kismet ! 

^'I  did  not  think  there  was  more  than  one  in  all  the 
world  who  would  have  done  what  you  have  to-night!'^ 
he  said;  ^^that  would  have  cared  if  I  lived  or  died! 
Why  do  you  care  T^ 

*^Ah!''  she  answered  hurriedly.  ^'Is  there  one  who 
would  not  ?  I  do  not  know  why.  One  does  not  reason 
of  such  things.  One  feels.  I  know  I  have  cared — ever 
since  that  morning  in  the  wood,  when  you  found  the 
book,  when  I  gave  you  the  prayer  !^^ 

He  started,  releasing  her  hands.  ,  ''Intercede  and  ob^ 
tain  for  me  of  thy  Son,  our  Lord,  this  graced  It 
seemed  to  come  to  him  from  the  air,  a  demoniac  echo  to 
his  desire.  His  breath  choked  him.  She  had  prayed 
for  him,  purely,  unselfishly.  How  should  he  requite? 
To-night,  for  his  sake  she  had  risked  reputation.  How 
did  he  purpose  to  repay?  Would  not  the  doing  of 
this  thing  sink  him  a  thousand  black  leagues  below  the 
sky  she  breathed?  No  matter  how  much  she  might 
come  to  love,  could  it  recompense  for  what  he  would 
take  away?  Between  those  two  lay  a  gulf  as  deep 
as  that  which  stretched  between  cool  Water  and  a  tor- 
tured Dives.  What  had  he,  George  Gordon,  dragging 
the  chain  and  ball  of  a  life  sentence  of  despair,  to  do 
with  her  in  her  purity  ?  He  yearned  for  her  because  she 
was  an  immaculate  thing;  because  she  reincarnated  for 
him  all  the  white,  unspotted  ideals  that  he  had  thrown 


214:  THE    CASTAWAY 

away,  that  he  longed  to  touch  again.  It  was  the  devil 
tempting  in  the  plea  of  an  angel! 

The  mist  fell  from  his  eyes. 

"Child  !'^  he  said.  "What  you  have  done  to-night  I 
can  never  repay.  I  shall  remember  it  until  I  die.  But 
I  am  not  worthy  of  your  thought — ^not  worthy  of  a 
single  throb  of  that  heart  of  yours  V 

She  shook  her  head  protesting. 

"That  cannot  be  true/'  she  contended,  '^ut  if  it 
were,  Signore,  one  cannot  say  ^I  will/  or  *I  will  not  care' 
when  one  chooses.^'  Her  tone  was  naive,  and  arch  with 
a  smiling,  shy  rebellion. 

"Listen,''  he  went  on.  "Do  not  think  me  jesting. 
What  I  say  now  I  say  because  I  must.  I  want  you  to 
promise  me  you  will  do  something — something  only  for 
your  good,  I  swear  that !" 

The  smile  faded  from  her  lips,  chilled  by  his  earnest- 
ness. 

"When  you  go  from  here  you  must  forget  that  day  at 
La  Mira,  forget  that  you  came  to-night — that  we  have 
ever  met !    Will  you  promise  this  ?" 

Her  whole  mind  was  a  puzzled  question  now.  Did  he 
mean  she  should  see  him  no  more?  Was  he  quitting 
Venice  ?  The  thought  came  like  a  pang.  But  to  forget ! 
Could  she  if  she  would  ?  Why  did  he  say  it  was  for  her 
good?    A  fear,  formless  and  vague,  ran  through  her. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that,  Signore  ?" 

He  turned  his  face  away.  It  was  so  much  harder  than 
he  thought.  Must  he  tell  her  who  he  was?  Could  he 
not  carry  with  him  this  one  memory?  Must  he  drink 
this  cup  of  abnegation  to  its  last  dregs  ?  The  very  kind- 
ness of  silence  would  be  cruelty  for  her !    The  seed  fate 


THE   CASTAWAY.  215 

had  sown,  watered  by  mystery,  would  germinate  ia 
thorns !    He  must  tell  her — tell  her  now ! 

The  press  of  maskers  flooding  the  square,  circled 
nearw,  and  she  drew  close.  Her  hand  from  under  her 
cloak,  found  his  own,  suddenly  fearful,  feeling  bold 
looks  upon  them. 

''Bravo  la  Fornarinar  rose  a  jeering  cry.  An  ex- 
clamation broke  from  Gordon's  lips.  A  woman  had 
burst  from  the  throng  like  a  beautiful  embodied 
storm.  Teresa  shrank  with  a  sob  of  dismay  at  the  vision 
of  flashing  black  eyes  and  dark  hair  streaming  across- 
jealous  brows. 

The  crowd  laughed. 

*^It  is  VInglese  malignor  said  a  voice. 

Evading  Gordon's  arm,  with  a  spring  like  a  tiger's^ 
the  infuriate  figure  reached  the  girl,  snatching  at  the 
veil. 

'^So  he  prefers  you  for  his  donna  F*  she  sneered  sav- 
agely.   ^'Let  us  see,  white  face !" 

The  rent  gauze  dropped  to  the  ground. 

Sudden  stillness  fell.  The  jests  and  jeers  hushed. 
Teresa  stood  motionless,  her  features  frozen  to  sculp- 
ture; a  passing  cloud  had  slipped  from  the  moon,  and 
the  silvery  light  above  and  behind  her  caught  and 
tangled  to  a  glistening  aureole  in  her  amber  hair  that 
fell  in  a  mist  about  her  shoulders.  The  illusion  of  a 
halo  was  instant  and'  awe-inspiring.  More  than  one, 
gazing,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

There  was  a  cry — ^the  Fornarina  had  flung  herself 
on  her  knees  on  the  flagging.  A  stir  came  from  the 
crowd. 

Ulnglese    maligno!     For   the    girl    who    stood    so 


216  .THE   CASTAWAY 

moveless,  the  exclamation  had  blotted  joy  from  the  imi- 
verse.  It  was  as  though  all  terrors  gripped  her  bodily 
in  a  molten  midnight.  Dreams,  faiths,  prayer,  and 
tender  things  nnguessed,  seemed  to  be  shrivelling  in  her. 
She  shivered,  put  out  her  hands  and  vravered  on  her 
feet. 

"DioT  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  'TTou,  the  wicked 
milord  r 

Gordon,  in  aching  misery,  stretched  out  his  arms 
toward  her,  though  he  saw  her  eyes  were  closed,  with 
a  broken  word  that  was  lost  in  a  tumult,  as  a  gigantic 
form  plowed  through  the  circle,  a  form  from  whose 
rush  maskers  fell  away  like  tenpins. 

It  was  Tita,  enraged,  bull-like.  He  gathered  the 
crumpling,  veilless  figure  in  his  arms,  thrust  his  burly 
shoulder  against  the  crowd  and  bore  her  quickly  to  the 
water-stairs  where  lay  the  dark  gondola. 

He  set  her  on  the  cushions  and  plied  the  oar  till  it 
smoked  in  its  socket. 

The  bright  canals  fled  by — she  had  not  moved.  By 
darker  passages  he  went  now  and  very  slowly,  threading 
stagnant  unlighted  alleys.  The  way  opened  out,  a  swish 
of  trailing  tendrils  swept  across  the  oar — ^they  were  un- 
der a  vine-trellised  bridge.  The  lampless  gondola  crept 
along  the  wall,  stole  with  sudden  swiftness  across  a 
patch  of  moonbeams  and  darted  into  the  shadowy  water- 
gate. 

Tita  had  thought  the  canal  quite  deserted.  But  be- 
yond the  moonlight  another  craft  had  been  drowsing 
by.  The  old  man  under  its  tenda  had  been  musing  on 
the  loveliness  of  a  girl  within  those  walls  whom  he 
should  soon  possess,  and  with  her  a  dowry,  set  aside  at 


THE   CASTAWAY  217 

Ler  birth,  which  the  waning  fortunes  of  her  family  had 
preserved  intact.  He  saw  the  dark  bulk  shoot  into  the 
gilded  water-gate  and  peered  out. 

"What  was  that?"  he  demanded. 

"A  gondola,  surely,  Excellence." 

Garden  water-gates  seldom  swung  in  Venice  at  night. 
For  a  moment  he  watched.  "Some  servant's  errand," 
he  reflected,  and  leaned  back  on  the  cushions. 

In  the  orchid-scented  garden.  Titans  brawny  arms 
lifted  Teresa  out  and  set  her  upon  the  marble  steps. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  Englishman. 

"Illustrissimar  he  whispered.     "Shall  I  kill  him?" 

Then  something  broke  in  Teresa's  breast.  She  clasped 
the  broad  neck,  sobbing: 

"No,  no,  Tita !  Dear  Tita !  Not  that  I  I  would  rather 
die  myself !" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  PEACE  OF  PADEE  SOMALIAN" 

"AH  night  Gordon's  gondola  floated  over  the  dark 
lagoon.  All  night  the  star-silvered  dip  of  the  oar  broke 
into  ripples  the  glassy  surface.  All  night  Gordon  sat 
silent,  gazing  out  across  the  low  islands  that  barred  the 
sea. 

Something  had  touched  his  life  which,  sooner  met, 
might  have  made  existence  a  boon.  A  woman's  soul  had 
roused  him — ^but  only  to  a  rayless  memory  of  what 
burned  and  rankled,  as  the  touch  of  a  hand  wakes  a 
prisoner  from  nightly  lethargy  to  a  sense  of  bolt  and 
chain. 

Lines  from  his  poem  which  she  loved — ^which  had 
called  forth  her  prayer — recurred  to  him: 

"A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain, — 
It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again. 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard; 
And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise. 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track, 
I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before." 
(318) 


THE   CASTAWAY  219 

So  she  had  come  and  gone,  and  his  hands  touched 
only  walls  of  adamant,  his  ears  heard  only  an  echo  roll- 
ing across  blank  infinities ! 

The  moon  sank.  The  great,  linked  lamps  of  the  heav- 
ens burned  brighter,  faded  at  length,  and  a  breath  of 
sea-breeze,  harbinger  of  the  dawn,  struck  coldly  on  his 
cheek.  Night  became  soft  twilight,  twilight  grew  to 
warm  amethyst.  Little  milky  clouds  dappled  the 
zenith,  slowly  suffused  by  a  flush  of  rose  that  grew  to 
vivid  splendor  gray-streaked,  as  the  sun's  climbing  edge 
touched  the  humid  horizon. 

The  occupant  of  the  gondola  stirred  and  looked  about 
him.  The  air  was  full  of  mewing  swallows,  and  a  sandy 
island  lay  before  him  from  which  rose  clumps  of  foli- 
age and  the  dim  outlines  of  brown  stone  walls,  gilded 
by  the  growing  light.  The  gondolier's  voice  broke  the 
long  silence : 

'^It  is  the  Armenian  monastery  of  Saint  Lazarus,  Ex- 
cellence." 

The  island  lay  lapped  in  quiet.  Not  a  sound  or 
movement  intrenched  upon  its  peace.  Only  the  swal- 
lows circled  shrilly  about  slim  bell-towers,  lifting  like 
fingers  pointing  silently.  A  narrow  causeway  through 
an  encircling  dike  led  to  the  wharf,  and  beyond,  by  a 
gate,  to  an  orchard  where  gnarled  fruit-trees  sniffed  the 
salt  air.  From  a  chimney  at  one  side  a  strand  of  smoke 
sheered  slenderly. 

Gordon  drew  a  long  breath.  "Put  me  ashore,"  he 
said. 

The  gondola  shot  alongside  the  tiny  wharf,  and  he 
stepped  on  to  its  stone  flags.  He  stood  silent  a  moment^ 
feeling  the  calm  upon  him  like  a  tangible  hand.    Far  to 


220  THE    CASTAWAY 

the  north,  half  a  league's  distance,  glowing  through  the 
bluish  winter  haze,  shone  the  towers  and  domes  of 
Venice,  a  city  of  white  and  violet,  vague  and  unsub- 
stantial as  a  dream,  a  field  of  iris  painted  upon  a  cloud. 

"Go  back  to  the  city/' 

The  servant  was  startled.  "And  leave  you,  Excel- 
lence?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  send  when  I  need  you." 

The  boatman  leaned  anxiously  on  his  oar.  "When 
ihey  question.  Excellence?" 

"Tell  no  one  but  Fletcher  where  I  am.  Say  to  him  it 
is  my  wish  that  he  shall  not  leave  the  palazzo." 

He  watched  the  gondola  glide  away  over  the  lighten- 
ing waters,  till  it  was  only  a  spot  on  the  dimpling  la- 
goon. He  took  a  black  phial  from  his  pocket  and  threw 
it  far  out  into  the  water.  Then  he  turned  his  gaze  and 
walked  up  the  wharf  toward  the  monastery,  still  sound- 
less and  asleep. 

At  the  corner  of  the  sea-wall,  the  stone  had  been  hol- 
lowed with  the  chisel  into  a  niche,  in  which,  its  face 
turned  seaward,  stood  a  small  leaden  image  of  the  Vir- 
gin. He  noted  it  curiously,  with  the  same  sensation  of 
the  unartificial  he  had  felt  at  sight  of  the  wooden  shrine 
at  La  Mira.  And  yet  with  all  its  primitive  simplicity, 
what  a  chasm  between  such  a  concrete  embodiment  of  a 
personal  guardianship  and  that  agnostic  altar  his  youth 
had  erected  "to  the  unknown  God" ! 

He  looked  up  and  saw  a  figure  near  him. 

A  man  of  venerable  look  stood  there,  bareheaded, 
with  a  wide  gray  beard  which  swept  upon  his  coarse 
dark  robe.    His  eyes  were  deep  and  pleasant,  and  his 


.THE    CA»TAVVAi:j  221! 

countenance  spiritual,  gracious  and  reserved.  'An  openi 
gate  in  the  wall  showed  the  way  he  had  come. 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  The  lucent  gaze  con- 
fronting him  seemed  to  Gordon  to  possess  a  strange  fa- 
miliarity: it  was  the  same  expression  of  unworldly  sin- 
cerity that  had  shone  in  those  London  days  from  Dal- 
las^ face. 

^^What  do  you  seek,  my  son?'' 

Perhaps  the  friar  had  already  had  time  to  study  the 
visitor.  Perchance  the  clear  scrutiny  had  read  some- 
thing beneath  that  cryptic  look  bent  upon  the  shrine. 
What  did  he  not  seek,  indeed ! 

When  Gordon  answered  it  was  simply,  in  Italian  as 
direct  as  the  other's  question. 

"The  peace  of  your  walls  and  fields  drew  me.  Padre. 
By  your  leave,  I  would  rest  a  while  here." 

The  friar's  look  had  not  wavered.  Contemplation 
teaches  one  much.  It  was  easy  to  read  the  lines  of  dissi- 
pation, of  evil  indulgence,  that  marked  the  white  face 
before  him ;  but  the  padre  saw  further  to  the  soul-sick- 
ness beneath. 

"We  are  Armenians,  Signore,"  he  proffered,  "a  com- 
munity of  students,  who  have  poor  entertainment;  but 
to  such  as  we  have,  the  stranger  is  welcome.  He  who 
comes  to  us  stays  without  question  and  fares  forth  again 
at  his  own  will." 

As  he  spoke,  a  bell's  clear,  chilly  chime  rose  from 
somewhere  within  the  walls.  At  the  note  the  padre 
turned,  bowed  his  knee  before  the  leaden  Virgin,  and 
rising,  with  arm  raised  toward  the  lagoon,  blessed  the 
waters  and  the  land.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand  tof 
Gordon. 


22S  THE   CASTAWAY 

^'I  am  Padre  Su.kias  Somalian,"  he  said.  "I  will  go 
and  inform  the  prior.    I  will  call  you  presently/' 

He  disappeared  through  the  wall-gate. 

Gordon's  eyes,  following  him,  saw  the  worn  motto 
deeply  cut  in  the  stone  above  it. 

"0  8olitudo,  sola  Beatitudo'* 

Was  it  solitude  that  had  brought  that  look  of  utter 
peace  to  the  friar's  face?  Or  was  it  rather  the  belief 
that  made  him  bow  before  the  niche  yonder  ? 

His  gaze  wandered  back  to  the  shrine.  Prayer  to  him 
was  a  fetish — a  plastic  rigmarole  of  symbols  and  for- 
mulae— ^the  modern  evolution  of  the  pre-Adamite,  an- 
thropomorphic superstition.  It  was  far  more  than  that 
to  the  friar.  He  knelt  each  day  to  that  little  leaden 
image.  And  before  such  an  image  she,  Teresa,  whose 
pure  soul  had  been  wounded  last  night,  had  laid  that 
written  petition. 

A  singular  look  stole  to  his  face,  half -quizzical,  half- 
wistful.  He  took  a  leaf  of  paper  from  his  pocket.  He 
hesitated  a  moment,  folding  and  unfolding  it.  He 
glanced  toward  the  gate. 

Then  he  went  to  the  niche,  stooped  and  lifted  one  of 
the  loose  flat  stones  that  formed  the  base  on  which  the 
image  rested.  He  brushed  away  the  sand  with  his  hand, 
put  the  paper  in  the  space  and  replaced  the  stone  over 
it. 

As  he  stood  upright,  a  voice  called  to  him  from  the 
gate.  It  was  the  padre,  and  he  turned  and  followed 
him  in. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AT  THE   FEET   OP  OUR  LADY  OP    SORROWS 

George  Gordon,  at  the  monastery  of  San  Lazzarro, 
looked  out  of  washed  eyes  upon  an  altered  condition. 
He  was  conscious  of  new  strength  and  new  weaknesses. 
The  man,  emerging  from  the  slough  of  those  months  of 
lawless  impulses  and  ungoverned  recklessnesses,  had 
found  no  gradual  rejuvenation.  After  weeks  of  remorse, 
temptation  had  flung  itself  upon  him  full  armed.  The 
memory  of  a  prayer  had  vanquished  it.  In  that  instant 
of  moral  resistance,  conscience  had  been  reborn.  It  was 
the  sharp  sword  dividing  forever  past  from  present. 
The  past  of  debauchery  was  henceforth  impossible  to 
him.  What  future  was  there  ?  He  had  not  only  to  bear 
unnumbed  the  despair  he  had  tried  to  drown,  but  an 
anguish  born  of  the  newer  yesterday. 

The  wholesome  daily  life  of  the  friars,  their  homely 
occupations  and  studies,  varied  by  little  more  fhan  ma- 
tutinal visits  of  fish-boats  of  the  lagoon,  aided  him  in- 
sensibly. His  thought  needed  something  craggy  to 
break  upon  and  he  found  it  in  the  Armenian  language 
which  he  studied  under  the  tutelage  of  Padre  Somalian, 
aiding  the  friar  in  turning  into  its  rugged  structure 
the  sonorous  periods  of  "Paradise  Lost.'' 
(233y 


224  THE    CASTAWAY 

But  from  time  to  time,  in  this  routine,  a  searing 
memory  would  recur  and  he  would  see  in  shifting  chi" 
aroscuro,  the  scene  on  the  Piazza  San  Marco :  the  faces 
of  the  maskers,  the  slight,  shrinking  form  of  Teresa, 
the  angry  dark  eyes  of  the  Fornarina,  a  hand  snatch- 
ing at  a  veil — ^then  the  streaming  moonlight  tangling 
to  a  halo  about  a  girl's  shocked  face  so  innocently 
touched  with  horror,  a  face  that  would  always  be  dis- 
tinct to  him ! 

If  he  could  have  spared  her  the  indignity  of  that  one 
coarse  scene!  If  he  could  only  have  told  her  himself, 
and  gently!  But  even  that,  Fate  had  denied  him — 
the  dogging  Nemesis  that  stalked  him  always !  But  for 
its  decree,  they  had  not  met  that  night.  He  would 
have  remained  in  her  mind  as  she  had  seen  him  by  the 
side  of  little  Pasquale — a.  kindly  shadow,  a  mystery 
beckoning  her  sympathy,  then  haply  forgot.  Now  she 
would  remember  him  always.  Not  as  the  wretched  and 
misunderstood  being  for  whom  she  had  prayed  at  La 
Mira,  but  with  shrinking  and  self-reproach,  as  a  veri- 
table agency  of  evil — ^the  true  milord  maligno,  who 
had  bought  her  interest  with  the  spurious  coin  of  hy- 
pocrisy. So  his  tormented  thought  raced  out  along  the 
barren  grooves  of  surmise. 

As  he  walked  under  the  orchard's  rosy  roof,  the  prior 
called  io  him : 

'^A  wedding  party  is  coming  to  the  south  landing," 
he  said.  '^Our  monastery  is  fortunate  this  month.  This 
is  the  third." 

Gordon  looked.  There,  rounding  the  sea-wall,  was 
a  procession  of  gondolas,  decked  superbly,  the  foremost 
draped  wholly  in  white  and  trailing  bright  streamers 


THE   CASTAWAY  225 

in  the  water,  like  some  great  queen  bird  leading  a  covey 
of  soberer  plumage.  By  the  richness  of  the  banners 
and  embroidered  tenda,  it  was  the  cortege  of  some  noble 
bridal.  As  he  gazed,  the  faint  music  of  stringed  instru- 
ments drifted  across  the  walls. 

Gathering  closer  the  coarse  brown  monastery  robe  he 
had  thrown  about  him,  Gordon  followed  the  padre 
through  the  garden  to  the  further  entrance,  where  the 
brethren,  girdled  and  cowled,  were  drawn  up,  a  benign 
row.  The  bride  would  wait  among  the  ladies  on  the 
beach,  since  beyond  that  portal  no  woman's  foot  must 
go;  the  bridegroom  would  enter,  to  leave  his  gifts  and 
to  drink  a  glass  of  home-pressed  violet-scented  wine  in 
the  great  hall. 

Gordon  paused  a  little  way  from  the  water-stairs  and 
looked  down  over  the  low  wall  at  the  white  gondola. 
One  day,  he  mused,  Teresa  would  marry — some  noble 
like  this  no  doubt,  for  she  had  rank  and  station — one 
whom  she  would  love  as  she  might  have  loved  him. 
Perhaps  she  would  celebrate  her  marriage  in  the  Vene- 
tian way,  come  in  a  gondola,  procession  maybe  to  this 
very  monastery,  never  guessing  that  he  once  had  been 
within  it!  In  what  corner  of  the  world  would  he  be 
then? 

Under  the  edge  of  the  tenda  he  could  see  the  shim- 
mering wedding-gown  of  the  bride,  cloth  of  gold  heavy 
with  seed  pearls.  The  gentlemen  had  already  entered 
the  close.  As  he  gazed,  the  gondola  swung  round  and 
he  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  her  face. 

"Teresa  V  he  gasped,  and  his  hand  clutched  the  wall. 

She— so  soon!  A  sudden  pain,  not  vague  but  defi- 
nite, seized  him.   She  had  not  cared,  then.   Her  heart 


226  THE   CASTAWAY] 

had  not  suffered,  after  all !  On  that  night,  when  she  had 
swayed  forward  into  the  gondolier's  arms,  it  had  been 
only  horror  at  her  discovery,  not  a  nearer  grief !  What 
for  that  quivering  instant  he  had  thought  he  read  in 
her  exclamation  had  not  been  there.  Fool !  To  think 
his  face  could  have  drawn  her  for  an  hour!  Doubly 
fool  to  sorrow  for  her  hurt !  Better  so.  She  must  not 
see  him ;  no  reminder  of  shame  and  affront  should  mar 
this  day  for  her. 

He  turned,  crossed  the  garden,  opened  the  wall-gate 
and  came  out  by  the  niched  shrine  upon  the  shore  path 
which  semi-circled  the  monastery. 

A  gust  of  self-raillery  shook  him.  Inside,  the  friars 
were  gravely  drinking  a  health  to  the  bride,  in  cups 
kept  burnished  for  the  purpose,  made  of  pure  gold.  He, 
though  only  a  guest,  should  be  among  them  in  robe  and 
girdle  to  cheer  these  nuptials !  He  had  drunk  many  a 
bumper  in  such  costume  in  the  old  Newstead  days, 
with  Sheridan  and  Tom  Moore ! 

The  bitter  laugh  died  on  his  lips.  Why  should  he 
remember  so  well?  In  such  a  gabardine  he  had  drunk 
the  toast  Annabel  had  heard,  the  night  he  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  And  he  had  drunk  it  from  a  death'a- 
head!  The  emblem,  truly  enough,  had  typified  the 
tragedy  marriage  was  to  be  to  him ! 

He  leaned  forward,  resting  his  forehead  against  the 
mossed  stone,  as  if  its  coolness  might  allay  the  fever 
that  held  him.  Would  marriage  have  meant  such  for 
him  if  the  words  that  had  bound  him  to  Annabel  had 
linked  him  to  a  heart  like  Teresa's,  of  fire  and  snow,  of 
simple  faith,  of  tenderness  and  charity?  If  he  could 
have  loved  one  like  her ! 


THE   CASTAWAY.  227 

He  had  no  knowledge  of  how  long  he  stood  there.  He 
was  recalled  by  a  voice  from  the  path  behind  him — ^be- 
tween him  and  the  gate,  his  only  way  of  escape — ^a  voice 
that  held  him  spellbound. 

"Father,  give  me  your  blessing  ?' 

With  an  overmastering  sense  of  the  fatality  that  had 
beckoned  her  to  the  lagoon  path  at  just  this  moment  ta 
mistake  him  for  one  of  the  padres,  he  turned  slowly. 
She  was  kneeling,  the  exquisite  fabric  of  her  dress 
sweeping  the  moist  shingle,  her  eyes  on  the  ground, 
awaiting  the  sign. 

He  reached  out  his  hand  with  a  hoarse  cry : 

"Not  that !  Teresa !  It  is  I — I — ^who  should  kneel 
to  your 

The  words  broke  from  him  at  sight  of  her  bent  face, 
not  as  a  bride's  should  be,  but  weary  and  listless.  Un- 
derneath the  cry  was  a  quick  thrill  of  triumph.  Though 
she  was  that  day  another  man's  wife,  yet  she  had  suf- 
fered! But  the  thrill  died  in  a  pang  of  reproach.  If 
she  did  care,  better  the  harshest  thought  of  him  now ! 

She  had  sprung  to  her  feet  in  passionate  amaze. 

^^ou  V  she  exclaimed ;  "ah,  you !" 

In  the  exclamation  there  was  a  great  revulsion  and 
greater  joy.  Her  gaze  swept  his  pallid  features,  his 
costume — ^her  sick  imagination  had  pictured  him  in 
scenes  of  ribaldry,  with  evil  companions!  She  began 
to  murmur  broken  sentences: 

"I  have  wronged  you !  That  night  on  the  square — it 
was  not  the  you  that  I  had  known !  You  had  tried  to 
leave  that  life  behind — ^the  past  that  had  given  you  that 
name!  You  are  not  what  they  say, — ^not  now!  Not 
now!" 


228  THE    CASTAWAY 

He  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"It  is  I  who  have  wronged  you/^  he  said  in  a  voice 
liard  from  repression.  ^^Do  not  judge  me  by  this  robe ; 
it  means  less  than  nothing.  I  am  here  by  the  veriest  ac- 
cident.   Not  for  penance  or  shriving.'^ 

For  an  instant  she  recoiled,  instinct  groping  in  the 
maze  of  doubt.  What  was  he,  erring  angel  or  masque- 
rading devil  ?  It  was  the  question  she  had  cried  to  her- 
self all  this  time,  blindly,  passionately,  her  judgment 
all  astray — ^the  query  that  silence  had  at  last  answered 
with  the  conviction  in  which  her  long-planned  marriage 
had  seemed  as  acceptable  a  fate  as  any.  Now  her  soul, 
wavering  anew,  spoke  its  agony  in  a  direct  appeal : 

"Tell  me !  tell  me  the  truth !"  she  pleaded  piteously. 
"I  have  suffered  so  since  that  night.  I  have  not  known 
— ^how  could  I  know  ? — what  to  think.  I  believed  what 
you  said  at  La  Mira,  every  word !  And  it  is  not  your 
past  I  think  of  now ;  it  is  only  what  you  were  that  very 
hour  and  since, — and  what  you  are  to-day.  Was  it  only 
a  play — to  make  me  sorry  ?    Did  you  pretend  it  all  ?'' 

"Teresa!"  he  entreated. 

^'You  said  that  night  that  I  must  forget  we  had  ever 
met.  Did  that  mean  you  merely  pitied  and  spared  me  ? 
That  you  are  still  to  be — ^all  that  Venice  says  ?" 

"It  was  what  I  had  been  that  counted !" 

""No,  no !"  she  protested.  "Can't  you  see  that  does 
not  matter  to  me  now  ?  It  is  only  what  you  were  then 
that  counts  to  me!  Your  voice,  your  eyes,  what  you 
said — ^you  made  me  care !    Was  it  all  a  lie  ?" 

He  felt  his  heart  contract  at  this  visible  suffering 
whose  root  was  so  unselfish  a  desire.  His  resolve  crum- 
bled. 


THE    CASTAWAY  229 

'Teresa/^  he  said  in  a  lone  as  strained  as  her  own, 
^Vhatever  of  evil  I  have  done,  has  not  been  since  I 
have  known  you.  You  have  waked  something  in  me 
that  would  not  sleep  again.  It  was  this  you  saw  and 
heard  and  felt.  I  could  not  hide  it.  It  has  stayed  with 
me  ever  since !  It  will  always  be  with  me  now,  whether 
I  will  or  no.  I  did  come  here  by  accident.  But  I  have 
stayed  because  the  past — Venice  and  my  life  there — ^is 
hateful  to  me!  It  has  been  so  since  that  morning  at 
LaMirar 

"Oh!"  she  breathed,  "then  when  you  asked  me  for 
the  prayer — ^you  did  not — ^you  meant — ^' 

"It  was  because  it  was  almost  the  only  unselfish  and 
unworldly  thing  I  had  ever  known.  Because  it  was  a 
thought  for  the  scorned  and  unshriven;  because  of  the 
very  hurt  it  gave ;  because  it  was  a  prayer  of  yours — for 
me!'' 

While  he  spoke,  a  great  gladness  illumined  her  face. 
"Have  you  kept  it?" 

He  turned  from  her  instinctively  to  the  shrine,  his 
hand  outstretched  to  raise  the  flat  stone.  But  as  sud- 
denly he  paused.  He  had  placed  it  there  in  a  half -sar- 
donic mockery ;  not  with  the  pure  faith  she  would  infer 
from  the  action.  He  could  not  stand  in  a  false  light 
before  her. 

He  let  the  stone  fall  back  into  its  place. 

As  he  turned  again  to  answer,  he  confronted  two 
figures  coming  through  the  gateway  a  few  paces  off. 
One  was  an  old  man,  his  bent  form  dressed  gaily.  The 
other  was  Padre  Somalian.  The  latter,  in  advance,  had 
alone  seen  the  lifted  stone. 

Both,  however,  saw  the  emotion  in  the  two  faces  be- 


230  THE    CASTAWAYj 

fore  them.  The  padre  stood  still ;  the  other  sprang  for- 
ward, his  posture  instinct  with  an  unhealthy  passion, 
his  piercing  eyes  on  the  pair  with  evil  inquiry. 

The  attitude  of  ownership  was  unmistakable.  Gordon 
felt  his  veins  clog  with  ice.  This  senile  magnifico 
Teresa's  husband!  This — ^a  coerced  Venetian  mating 
of  name,  of  rank,  of  lands  alone — for  her?  The 
sight  smote  him  painfully,  yet  with  a  strange,  bitter 
comfort. 

There  was  even  more  in  the  old  noble's  look  than 
Gordon  guessed:  more  than  anger  at  her  presence  here, 
this  young  bride  of  his,  apart  from  the  gondolas.  He 
had  recognized  the  man  in  the  monk's  robe.  His  voice 
rose  in  a  snarl: 

"Unbaptized  son  of  a  dog !  What  is  he  doing  on  holy 
ground  ?"  He  pointed  his  stick  at  Gordon.  "The  aban- 
doned of  Venice!  Has  not  his  past  fame  penetrated 
here.  Padre,  that  you  lend  him  asylum?  Call  my  gon- 
doliers and  I  will  have  him  flung  into  the  lagoon!" 

The  friar  stood  transfixed,  shocked  and  pained. 
Never  since  he  had  met  Gordon  on  that  very  spot  at 
sunrise,  had  he  asked  even  his  name.  Suppose  the 
stranger  were  all  the  other  said.  What  difference  should 
it  make?    The  fixed  habit  of  the  monk  answered: 

"What  he  has  been  is  of  no  question  here." 

The  grandee  sneered  at  the  padre's  answer. 

*'You  left  the  gondola,  to  be  sure,  to  pray,"  he  said 
to  Teresa,  then  turned  to  Gordon  who  waited  in  con- 
sfa-ained  quiet:  'HiV^olf  in  sheep's  clothing!  Bid  you 
come  for  the  same  purpose?" 

Teresa  felt  in  Gordon's  silence  a  control  that  stilled 
her  own  violence  of  feeling.     Her  husband  saw  her 


THE   CASTAWAY:  2Zt 

glance  and  a  maniacal  suspicion  darted  like  lava 
through  his  brain.  If  this  meeting  were  planned,  they 
had  met  before — she  and  this  maligno  whom  he  had 
seen  on  the  Piazza  San  Marco.  Two  hectic  spots  sprang 
into  his  sallow  cheeks.  A  woman's  veiled  form  had 
stood  by  this  man  then !  He  remembered  the  derisive 
story  with  which  the  caffes  had  rung  the  next  day. 
Thai  same  night  the  unlighted  gondola  had  crept 
through  the  water-gate  into  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo 
Albrizzi! 

He  leaped  forward  and  gripped  Teresa's  wrist  with 
shaking  fingers,  as  the  padre  opened  his  mouth  to  speak. 
He  leaned  and  whispered  words  into  her  ear — wordiB 
that,  beside  himself  as  he  was,  he  did  not  choose  that 
the  friar  should  hear. 

The  hazard  told.  Her  color  faded.  A  startled  look 
sped  to  her  eyes.  He  knew  that  she  had  met  Gordon  at 
night  on  the  square !  She  read  monstrous  conclusions 
in  the  gaze  that  held  her.  Innocent  as  that  errand  had 
been,  he  would  never  believe  it!  A  terror  struck  her 
cold.  This  old  man  who  possessed  her,  that  instant 
ceased  to  be  an  object  of  tolerance  and  became  an  active 
horror,  baleful,  secretive  and  cruel.  She  stood  still, 
trembling. 

The  padre  had  been  nonplussed  at  the  quick  move* 
ment  and  its  result.  Gordon  could  not  surmise  what 
the  whispered  words  had  been,  but  at  Teresa's  paleness 
he  felt  his  muscles  grow  rigid. 

To  her  accuser  her  agitation  meant  but  one  thing. 
He  released  her  wrist  with  a  cracked  laugh,  distempered 
Jealousy  convulsing  his  features.  He  hissed  one  word 
at  her~"Wanton!" 


2S2  THE    CASTAWAY 

The  syllables  were  live  coals  flung  upon  her  breast. 
She  cried  out  and  put  her  hands  to  her  ears  as  if  to  shut 
out  the  sound. 

At  that  epithet  and  her  cry,  Gordon's  countenance 
turned  livid.  His  fingers  hardened  to  steel.  The  air 
swam  red.  But  the  girl  divined;  she  sprang  before 
him  and  laid  her  fingers  on  his  arm.  His  hands  dropped 
to  his  sides;  he  remembered  suddenly  that  his  antago- 
nist was  aged,  decrepit.    What  had  he  been  about  to  do  ? 

For  one  heart-beat  Teresa  held  Gordon^s  glance. 
When  she  faced  her  distraught  husband,  her  eyes  were 
like  blue-tempered  metal.  Those  weeks  of  baffled  quest 
had  been  slipping  the  leash  of  girlhood.  That  one  word 
had  left  her  all  a  woman.  Her  lips  were  set,  and  resent- 
ment had  drenched  her  cheeks  with  vivid  color. 

'^Signore,''  she  said,  *^I  would  to  God  it  were  still 
yesterday  V 

She  turned,  and  went  proudly  down  the  path  by 
which  she  had  come. 

The  old  man  had  not  moved.  Xow  he  raised  his  stick 
and  struck  Gordon  with  it  across  the  brow.  A  white 
mark  sprang  where  it  fell,  but  the  other  did  not  lift  his 
hand.  Then  Teresa's  husband,  with  an  imprecation, 
spat  on  the  ground  at  the  friar's  feet  and  followed  her 
toward  the  gondolas. 

The  whole  scene  had  been  breathless  and  fate-like. 
To  the  padre,  it  was  a  flurry  of  hellish  passions  loosed 
from  the  pit.  The  storm  past,  still  shocked  from  the 
violence  of  its  impact,  his  mind  wrestled  with  a  doubt. 
His  first  glance  at  the  faces  of  the,  man  and  the  woman, 
as  he  emerged  from  the  gate,  had  been  full  of  sugges- 
tion.   They  had  not  seemed  to  spell  guilt,  yet  could  he 


THE   CASTAWAY  233 

tell?  What  had  been  the  husband^s  whispered  charge? 
Was  the  bearing  of  the  woman,  which  seemed  to  mirror 
innocence,  really  one  of  guile?  The  man  here  before 
him,  accused  of  what  specious  crimes  he  could  only 
guess !  Why  had  he  come  to  the  monastery  ?  Had  there 
been,  indeed,  more  than  chance  in  this  encounter  at  the 
shrine  ? 

He  looked  at  Gordon,  but  the  latter,  staring  out  with 
a  gaze  viewless  and  set  across  the  lagoon,  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  the  scrutiny.  "Be  not  forgetful  to  entertain 
strangers  V'  That  had  been  the  monastery's  creed.  Aye, 
but  if  it  should  be  entertaining  an  angel  of  evil  un- 
awares? He  thought  of  the  lifted  stone — the  man's 
hand  had  just  now  dropped  it  back  into  place  at  his  ap- 
proach. He  remembered  that  when  he  called  Gordon: 
from  the  gate  on  the  morning  of  his  coming,  he  had  seen 
him  bending  over  the  shrine.  The  fact  seemed  to  dis- 
close significance.  Had  this  stranger  used  that  holy 
emblem  to  further  a  clandestine  and  sinful  tryst?  Had 
he  hidden  an  endearing  message  there  for  the  wife  to 
find  to-day  if  he  should  be  observed  ? 

Lines  of  sternness  sharpened  the  friar's  features.  He 
strode  forward,  caught  up  the  stone  and  lifted  the 
folded  paper. 

The  sternness  smoothed  out  as  he  read  the  simple 
penned  sentences,  and  a  singular  look  crept  to  his  face. 
It  was  more  than  contrition;  it  was  the  self -accusatory 
sorrow  of  a  mind  to  whom  uncharity  is  a  heinous  sin  be- 
fore hi^  Heaven. 

He  turned,  flushing  painfully.  Gordon's  back  was 
still  toward  him. 

Then  the  padre  laid  the  paper  gently  back  in  its  place. 


234:  THE   castaway; 

reset  the  stone  over  it,  and  silently,  with  bowed  head  en- 
tered the  gate. 

That  night  there  were  two  who  did  not  close  eye  in 
fche  monastery  of  San  Lazzarro.  One  was  Padre  Soma- 
lian,  who  prayed  in  penance.  The  other  was  a  stranger 
who  walked  the  stone  floor  of  his  chamber,  the  prey  to 
an  overmastering  emotion. 

That  scene  on  the  path,  like  a  lightning  flash  in  a 
dark  night,  had  shown  Gordon  his  own  heart.  He  knew 
now  that  a  force  stronger  even  than  his  despair  had  been 
at  work  in  him  without  his  knowledge.  A  woman's  face 
cried  to  him  beyond  all  gainsaying.  Teresa's  voice 
sounded  in  every  lurch  of  wind  against  the  sea-wall — ^in 
every  wave  that  beat  like  a  passing  bell  upon  the  mar- 
gin-stones. 

Far,  far  deeper  than  the  bum  of  the  white  welt  on 
his  forehead  throbbed  and  thrilled  a  bitter-sweet  mis- 
ery. In  spite  of  his  desire,  he  had  brought  shame  and 
agony  upon  her — and  whether  for  good  or  ill,  he  loved 
her! 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  RESTRAIinNG  HAND 

An  east  wind  blew  from  the  Adriatic.  It  churned 
the  shadow  lagoon  to  an  ashen  yeast  of  fury,  hurled 
churlish  waves  against  the  sand-reef  of  the  Lido  and 
drove  fleering  rain-gusts  over  the  lonely  canals  and  de- 
serted squares  of  Venice  to  drench  the  baffled  and  be- 
draggled pigeons  huddled  under  the  columns  of  the 
Doges'  Palace.  It  beat  down  the  early  blossoms  in  the 
garden  of  the  Palazzo  Albrizzi  till  they  lay  broken  and 
sodden  about  the  arbor  and  the  wet  stone  benches.  It 
charged  against  the  closed  shutters  of  the  Palazzo  Mo- 
cenigo,  where  Fletcher,  obedient  though  foreboding, 
awaited  the  return  of  his  master.  The  sky  was  piled 
with  dreary  portents,  clouds  titanic,  unmixed,  like  ava- 
lanches of  gray  falling  cliffs,  and  beneath  it  Venice  lay 
as  ghostly  and  as  gray,  all  its  miracle  hues  gone  lack- 
luster, its  glories  palled,  its  whole  face  pallid  and 
corpse-like. 

In  the  old  monastery  of  San  Lazzarro,  in  the  bare 
white-washed  room  used  as  a  library,  with  wide  windows 
fronting  the  sea,  Gordon  sat  bending  over  a  table.  He 
had  been  trying  to  write,  but  could  not  for  the  thoughts 
that  flocked  between  him  and  the  paper. 

(235) 


236  THE    CASTAWAY 

They  were  thoughts  of  Teresa,  of  what  he  had  inno- 
cently brought  upon  her.  To  save  her  pain  he  would 
himself  have  gone  through  immeasurable  miseries,  but 
no  pang  of  his  could  lighten  hers,  or  ward  the  jealous 
fury  that  might  sting  and  embitter  her  life.  Where  was 
she  ?  Behind  some  cold  palazzo  walls  of  Venice,  suffer- 
ing through  him?  He  knew  not  even  her  name  now. 
Should  they  never  meet  again  ? 

She  loved  him.  When  and  how  she  had  crossed  that 
indistinguishable  frontier  mattered  nothing.  The  fact 
remained.  When  had  he  ever  been  loved  before,  he 
thought.  Not  Lady  Caroline  Lamb;  hers  was  an  aber- 
rant fancy,  an  orchid  bred  of  a  hothouse  life  in  London. 
Not  Annabel,  his  wife ;  she  had  loved  the  commiseration 
of  her  world  more  than  she  loved  him.  Not  Jane  Cler- 
mont— ^he  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  her.  For  he 
knew  that  not  for  one  ephemeral  moment  of  that  reek- 
less  companionship  had  a  real  love  furnished  extenua- 
tion. 

"Now,"  he  told  himself,  *%  who  could  not  love  when 
I  might,  may  not  when  I  can.  Yet  in  spite  of  the  black 
past  that  bars  my  life  from  such  as  Teresa's — I  love 
her!  In  spite  of  all — ^though  for  both  of  us  it  is  an 
impossible  condition,  impossible  then  since  I  was  chained 
to  a  marriage  in  England,  doubly  impossible  now  since 
she  is  bound  by  a  marriage  here.  I  love  her  and  she 
loves  me!  And  our  love  can  be  only  what  the  waves 
of  hell  were  to  Tantalus !" 

He  struck  the  littered  sheets  of  paper  with  his  hand, 
as  a  heavier  gust  of  wet  wind  rattled  the  casement. 
'^Darkness  and  despair !"  he  said  aloud.  "That  is  all  my 
pen  can  paint  now  I" 


THE   CASTAWAY  237 

A  door  opened  and  Padre  Somalian  entered. 

The  friar  surveyed  the  scene  of  tempest  from  the 
window  a  moment  in  silence ;  then  approached  the  table 
and  sat  down. 

^*Yon  are  at  work,  my  son  ?"  he  inquired  in  English. 

The  tone  was  mild  as  a  child's.  Since  his  penance 
after  that  scene  by  the  shrine,  the  eye  of  the  padre  had 
seen  truer.  But  he  had  asked  the  man  before  him  noth- 
ing. 

"Only  idle  verses,  Padre.'' 

"Why  idle?" 

''Because  they  cannot  express  what  I  would  have 
them." 

The  friar  pondered,  his  fingers  laced  in  his  beard. 
To-day,  in  the  dreariness  of  the  elemental  turmoil  with- 
out, he  longed  intensely  to  touch  some  chord  in  this 
lonely  man  that  would  vibrate  to  confidence. 

''What  would  you  have  them  express?"  he  asked  at 
length. 

''A  dream  of  mine  last  night.  Padre." 

A  dream !  Dreams  were  but  the  reflex  of  the  waking 
mind.    The  friar  felt  suddenly  nearer  his  goal. 

"Will  you  tell  it  to  me,  my  son  ?" 

Gordon  rose,  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out  as 
the  other  had  done.  His  face  was  still  turned  seaward 
as  he  began : 

"It  was  a  dream  of  darkness.  The  sun  was  extin- 
guished, and  moon  and  stars  went  wandering  into  space. 
It  was  not  thci  darkness  of  storm  and  night,  Padre,  for 
in  them  is  movement.  In  my  dream  there  was  none. 
Without  the  sun,  rivers  and  lakes  lay  stagnant.  The 
waves  were  dead,  the  tides  were  in  their  graves.    Ships 


238  THE    CASTAWAY, 

rotted  on  the  sea  till  their  masts  fell.  The  very  winds 
were  withered.  Darkness  was  everything — it  was  the 
universe !    That  was  my  dream." 

"There  is  no  darkness  in  God's  universe/'  said  Padre 
Somalian,  after  a  pause.  ^'It  is  only  in  the  human 
heart.  ^Men  love  darkness  rather  than  light/  says  the 
Book.    Did  men  welcome  it  in  your  dream  ?" 

"Morning  came/'  went  on  Gordon;  "came,  and  went, 
and  came,  but  it  was  not  day.  Men  forgot  their  hates 
and  passions.  They  prayed  only  for  light — ^but  it  did 
not  come.  They  lived  by  watch-fires,  and  when  their 
fuel  was  gone,  they  put  the  torch  to  their  own  homes  to 
see  one  another's  faces.  Huts  and  palaces  and  thrones 
blazed  for  beacons.  Whole  cities  burned  at  once.  The 
forests  were  set  on  fire  and  their  crackling  trunks 
dropped  and  faded  hour  by  hour.  As  the  ember-flashes 
fell  by  fits  on  the  men  who  watched  them,  their  faces 
looked  imearthly.  Some  lay  down  in  the  ashes  and 
howled  and  hid  their  eyes.  Some  rested  their  chins  on 
their  clenched  hands  and  smiled.  Others  hurried  to  and 
fro  feeding  the  flames,  looking  up  only  to  curse  the  sky 
— the  pall  of  a  past  world.  Wild  birds  fluttered  on  the 
baked  ground,  and  brutes  crawled  tame  and  tremulous. 
Vipers  hissed  under  foot  and  did  not  sting.  They  were 
killed  for  food.  War  was  everywhere,  for  every  meal  was 
bought  with  blood,  and  each  man  sat  apart  sullenly,  and 
gorged  himself  in  the  darkness.  One  thought  ruled^- 
death,  quick  and  ignominious.  Famine  came.  Men 
died  and  lay  unburied.  The  starving  devoured  the 
starved.  There  was  no  human  love  left.  There  was  only 
one  unselfish,  faithful  thing.  It  was  a  dog,  and  he  was 
faithful  to  a  corpse.    He  had  no  food  himself,  but  he 


THE   CASTAWAYi  239 

kept  beast's  and  famished  men  at  bay  till  He  too  died^, 
licking  his  master's  dead  hand/' 

The  words  had  fallen  measuredly,  deliberately,  as  if 
each  aspect  of  the  fearful  picture,  on  the  background  of 
the  tempest  that  gloomed  out  of  doors,  stood  distinct. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  the  friar  asked : 
"Was  that  the  dream's  end  ?" 

Gordon  had  turned  from  the  window  and  picked  up 
one  of  the  written  fragments.  He  read  the  last  few 
lines  aloud : 

"The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees;  but  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive. 
And  they  were  enemies:  they  met  beside 
The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place 
Where  had  been  heaped  a  mass  of  holy  things 
For  an  unholy  usage;  they  raked  up, 
And  shivering,  scraped  with  their  cold  skeleton  hands 
The  feeble  ashes,  and  their  feeble  breath 
Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame 
Which  was  a  mockery;  then  they  lifted  up 
Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 
Each  other's  aspects — saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died— 
Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died. 
Unknowing  who  he  was  upon  whose  brow 
Despair  had  written  'Fiend.' " 

There  was  no  sound  for  a  while  when  he  finished. 
The  padre  sat  motionless,  his  head  bent.  To  him  the 
picture  drawn  in  those  terse  lines  expressed  a  black  in- 
ferno of  human  hopelessness  into  which  he  had  never 
looked — ^the  very  apotheosis  of  the  damned.  He  rose, 
came  to  where  Gordon  stood,  and  laid  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"My  son/'  he  said  gently,  "there  was  one  darkest 


24:0  THE    CASTAWAY 

hour  for  the  world.  But  it  was  in  that  hour  that  light 
and  hope  for  men  were  born.  Every  man  bears  a  cross 
of  despair  to  his  Calvary.  But  He  who  bore  the  heavi- 
est saw  beyond.  What  did  He  say?  Not  my  will,  hut 
Thine  r 

Gordon  seemed  to  hear  Annabel's  voice  repeating  an 
old  question :  "What  do  you  believe  in  that  is  good,  I 
should  like  to  know?'^  The  friar  had  not  asked  ques- 
tions; he  had  spoken  as  if  voicing  a  faith  common  to 
them  both  and  to  all  men. 

Padre  Somalian  said  no  more.  He  left  the  room 
slowly. 

The  man  standing  by  the  window  had  made  no  re- 
ply. In  the  old  days  he  would  have  smiled.  Now  his 
brow  frowned  haggardly.  The  age-old  answer  of  the 
churchman!  To  what  multitudinous  human  miseries 
it  had  proffered  comfort!  The  sinless  suffering  and 
its  promise.  What  an  unostentatiously  beautiful  belief 
— if  it  were  only  true.    If  it  were  only  true! 

"What  an  advantage/'  he  thought,  "its  possession  gives 
the  padre  here!  If  it  is  true,  he  will  have  his  reward 
liereaf ter ;  if  there  is  no  hereafter,  he  at  the  worst  can  be 
but  with  the  infidel  in  his  eternal  sleep,  having  had  the 
assistance  of  an  exalted  hope  through  life  without  sub- 
sequent disappointment.  I  have  no  horror  of  the  awak- 
ening. In  the  midst  of  myriads  of  living  and  dead  crea- 
tions, why  should  I  be  anxious  about  an  atom  ?  It  will 
not  please  the  great  ^I'  that  sowed  the  star-clusters  to 
damn  me  for  an  unbelief  I  cannot  help,  to  a  worse  per- 
dition than  that  I  walk  through  now — ^and  shall  walk 
through  as  long  as  I  live !" 

He  spoke  the  last  phrase  half -aloud.    "As  lon^  as  I 


THE   CASTAWAY  241 

live.'^  Why  should  it  be  for  long?  "Here — despair; 
there — no  worse,  if  not  a  dreamless  sleep ! 

"Why  not?''  he  said  to  himself  with  grim  humor. 
*'I  should  many  a  good  day  have  blown  my  brains  out 
but  for  the  recollection  that  it  would  pleasure  Lady 
!N'oel, — and  even  then,  if  I  could  have  been  certain  to 
haunt  her  ?' 

He  turned  and  threw  the  window  open  and  a  scurry 
of  rainy  wind  whirled  the  sheets  of  paper  about  the 
floor.  He  looked  out  and  down.  On  that  side  of  the 
island  the  beach  had  been  only  a  narrow  weedy  ribbon 
soaked  by  every  storm.  ISTow  the  wind  that  had  driven 
the  sea  into  the  pent  lagoon,  had  piled  it  deep  in  the 
turbid  shallows,  and  the  wall  fell  sheer  into  the  gray- 
green  heave. 

"Of  what  use  is  my  life  to  any  one  in  the  world?" 
he  argued  calmly.  "Who  is  there  of  all  that  have  come 
nearest  to  me  to  whom  I  have  not  been  a  curse?  I 
am  bound  to  a  wife  who  hates  me.  Years  will  make 
my  memory  a  reproach  to  my  child.  Through  me  my 
enemies  stabbed  my  sister.  Shelley,  my  only  comrade 
in  that  first  year  of  ostracism,  I  hurt  and  disappointed. 
Teresa,  whom  I  love,  and  have  no  right  to  love — ^what 
have  I  made  her  life!  It  is  a  fitting  turn  to  such  a 
page.'' 

The  inner  shutter  of  the  vrindow  fastened  with  a  mas- 
sive iron  bolt.  He  drew  the  latter  from  its  place,  put 
it  into  his  pocket,  and  buttoned  his  coat  tightly.  A 
sentence  oddly  recurred  to  him  at  the  moment — a  verse 
from  a  quaint  old  epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Corinthians, 
"unknown  to  the  Vulgate,  which,  written  in  Armenian, 
he  had  found  in  the  monastery  library  and  translated  to 


242 


THE   CASTAWAY, 


torture  his  mind  to  attention :  "Henceforth,  no  one  can 
trouble  me  further;  for  I  bear  on  my  body  this  fetter .'* 
A  seemly  text  for  him  it  would  be  soon ! 

He  approached  the  window. 

There  was  a  step  behind  him  and  Padre  Somalian's 
voice  startled  him.    ''My  son,  a  message  for  you.^' 

Gordon  turned  heavily,  the  chill  of  that  intercepted 
purpose  cold  upon  him.  He  took  the  slender  roll  of 
parchment  the  friar  handed  him  and  opened  it.  It  was 
officially  ruled  and  engrossed — a  baptismal  certificate: 


AT  ST.  GILES'-IN-THE-FIELDS,  LONDON. 

Christian 
Name. 

Parents* 

Christian 

Names. 

Surname. 

Father's 
Residence. 

Father's 
Rank. 

By  Whom. 

AUegra. 

Rt.  Hon. 

George 

Gordon, 

(Reputed) 

by  Jane. 

Clermont. 

Travelling 

on  the 
Continent. 

Peer. 

Percy 
Byssha 
SheUey. 

The  man  who  read  snatched  at  the  top  of  the  paper. 
The  date  was  March  ninth,  1818.  He  felt  a  mist  before 
his  eyes.  Almost  two  years  ago,  and  he  had  not  known  I 
For  two  years  he  had  had  a  daughter  from  whom  he 
was  not  necessarily  debarred,  whom  hatred  in  England 
could  not  touch.  A  thrill  ran  through  him.  He  felt 
a  recrudescence  of  all  those  tender  impulses  that  had 
stirred  in  him  when  Ada  was  bom.  The  mother's  dis- 
like or  indifference  had  doubtless  concealed  the  fact 
from  him.  And  indeed,  when  in  that  time  had  he  de- 
served otherwise?  Why  was  he  told  now?  Who  had 
brought  this  record?. 


THE   CASTAWAY]  243 

The  padre,  watching  him  curiously,  saw  IHe  pang 
that  shot  across  his  face — the  pang  of  the  new  remorse- 
ful conscience. 

"The  gentleman  in  the  gondola/'  he  said,  "asked 
to  see  you/' 

"I  will  go  down,"  Gordon  answered.  He  closed  the 
window,  drew  the  iron  bar  from  his  coat  and  slipped  it 
back  between  its  staples. 

"A  wild  day  to  have  crossed  the  lagoon/'  the  friar 
observed.  "Stay — ^take  this."  He  threw  off  the  outer 
robe  he  wore  and  held  it  out.    "It  will  shed  the  rain." 

Gordon  went  rapidly  through  the  wall-gate  to  the 
wharf  where  he  had  first  set  foot  on  the  island.  His 
own  gondola,  battered  and  tossing,  lay  there. 

He  stopped  abruptly,  for  he  recognized  a  figure 
standing  by  it,  blue-coated,  bareheaded,  his  long  hair 
streaming  in  the  wind.  It  was  Shelley.  His  hand  was 
outstretched,  and  with  a  quick  movement  Gordon  strode 
forward  and  took  it.  A  swift  glance  passed  between  the 
troubled,  hollow  eyes  under  the  graying  hair,  and  the 
clear,  wild  blue  ones.  Shelley's  held  no  reproach,  only 
comprehension. 

"Fletcher  told  me  where  to  find  you/'  he  said;  "you 
must  forgive  him." 

"Where  is  the  child?" 

"In  the  convent  of  Bagnacavallo,  near  Ravenna." 

"And— Jane?" 

"She  is  with  us  now  in  Pisa." 

A  question  he  could  not  ask  hung  on  Gordon's  lips 
as  the  other  added : 

"She  is  going  to  America  with  a  troupe  of  players." 

She    no   longer   wished    the   child,   then!    AUegra 


S44  THE   CASTAWAY 

mighf  be  his.  His,  to  care  for,  to  teach  to  love  him, 
to  come  in  time  to  fill  a  part,  maybe,  of  that  void  in  his 
heart  which  had  ached  so  constantly  for  Ada,  further 
from  him  now  than  any  distance  measurable  by  leagues ! 

He  looked  again  at  the  scrap  of  paper  still  in  his 
hand,  heedless  of  the  wind  that  tore  at  his  robe  and 
lashed  him  with  spume  plucked  from  the  tunnelled 
waves  like  spilt  milk  from  a  pan.  Why  had  it  come  at 
just  that  moment  to  stay  his  leap  into  the  hereafter? 
Was  there,  after  all,  deeper  than  its  apparent  fatalism, 
an  obscure  purpose  in  what  man  calls  chance  ?  Was  this 
daughter,  bom  out  of  the  pale  as  he  himself  was  beyond 
the  pale,  to  give  him  the  comfort  all  else  conspired  to 
deny  ?    A  slender  hope  grew  tendril-like  in  him. 

While  Shelley  waited,  Gordon  untied  the  girdle  about 
his  waist,  stripped  off  the  brown  robe  and,  folding  it, 
placed  it  out  of  the  rain,  in  the  niche  where  stood  the 
leaden  Virgin.  From  his  pocket  he  took  some  bank- 
notes— all  he  had  with  him — ^laid  them  on  top  of  the 
Tobe  and  weighted  them  carefully  with  fragments  of 
rock. 

Last  he  lifted  the  flat  stone  under  which  was  Teresa's 
prayer.  The  paper  was  wet  and  blistered  from  the 
spray.  He  put  it  carefully  in  his  pocket.  Then  with 
one  backward  glance  at  the  monastery,  he  leaped  into 
the  gondola  beside  Shelley  and  signed  to  the  gondolier 
to  cast  off. 

For  an  hour  the  padre  sat  alone  in  the  library,  mus- 
ing, wondering  what  manner  of  message  had  called  that 
conflict  of  emotion  to  the  other's  face.    As  he  rose  at 


THE   CASTAWAY  245 

length,  the  wind  rattled  the  casement  and  called  his 
attention. 

He  paused  before  it.  "Why  did  he  have  the  iron 
bolt  ?"  he  said  to  himself.    "The  window  was  open,  too.^^ 

Standing,  a  thought  came  that  made  him  start.  He 
crossed  himself  and  hastened  out  of  the  room. 

A  few  moments  later  he  was  at  the  wharf.  The 
gondola  was  gone,  but  by  the  shrine  he  found  what 
Gordon  had  left. 

He  lifted  the  silver  crucifix  that  hung  at  his  girdle 
and  his  lips  moved  audibly: 

"0  Thou  who  quieted  the  tempest !"  he  prayed  in  his 
native  tongue.  "Thou  didst  send  this  racked  heart  to 
me  in  Thy  good  purpose.  Have  I  failed  in  aught  to- 
ward him  ?  Did  I,  in  my  blindness,  offer  him  less  than 
Thy  comfort?  Grant  in  Thy  will  that  I  may  once 
more  minister  to  him  and  that  when  his  storm  shall 
calm,  I  may  hold  before  his  eyes  this  sjmibol  of  Thy 
passion  and  forgiveness !'' 


CHAPTEK  XXXIII 

THE  PASSING  OF  JANE  CLERMONT 

The  storm-clouds  were  gone.  An  Italian  spring  was 
painting  the  hills  with  April  artistry.  Myrtle  hedges 
had  waked  to  childish  green,  lusty  creepers  swung  callow 
tendrils,  meadows  were  afire  with  the  delicate,  trembling 
anemone,  and  the  rustling  olive  copses  were  a  silver 
firmament  of  leaves.  The  immemorial  pine  woods  that 
stretched  about  Ravenna,  with  the  groves  and  rivers 
which  Boccaccio's  pen  had  made  forever  haunted,  were 
bathed  in  sun  and  noisy  with  winged  creatures. 

Under  the  boughs  of  the  balsamic  forest,  through  the 
afternoon,  from  the  convent  of  Bagnacavallo  into  Ea- 
venna,  a  wagonette  had  been  driven.  It  had  carried 
a  woman,  young,  dark-haired  and  of  Spanish  type — 
she  who  once  had  ruled  the  greenroom  of  Drury  Lane. 
Time  had  made  slight  change  in  Jane  Clermont's  pi- 
quant beauty.  A  little  deeper  of  tone  and  fuller  of  lip 
she  was,  perhaps  a  little  colder  of  look;  but  her  black 
eyes  snapped  and  sparkled  with  all  their  old  daring. 

The  convent  road  met  the  highway  on  the  skirt  of  the 
town.  At  the  juncture  sat  a  prosperous  osteria  half 
surrounded  by  trellised  arbors,  blowsy  with  yellow  snap- 
dragons and  gilly-flowers,  and  bustling  all  day  long 
with  the  transient  travel  of  tourists,  to  whom  Ravenna 
(246) 


THE   CASTAWAY]  247 

witH  its  massive  clusters  of  wide-eaved  Houses  and  dun- 
colored  churches,  its  few  streets  of  leisurely  business,  its 
foliaged  squares  and  its  colonnaded  opera-house,  were 
of  less  interest  than  the  tomb  of  Dante.  The  inn  held 
a  commanding  position.  The  post-road  that  passed  its 
door  curved  southward  toward  Pisa;  northward,  it 
stretched  to  Venice.  From  both  directions  through  Ba- 
venna,  lumbered  diligence  and  chaise. 

At  the  osteria  the  wagonette  halted,  made  a  detour 
and  was  finally  drawn  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  arbors 
where  it  was  unobserved  from  the  inn  and  yet  had  a 
screened  view  of  both  roads.  For  hours  the  vehicle  sat 
there  while  the  driver  dozed,  the  occupant  nesting  her 
chin  in  her  gloved  hand  and  from  time  to  time  rest- 
lessly shifting  her  position. 

Her  patience  was  at  last  rewarded.  Two  men  on 
horseback  had  paused  at  the  cross-road.  One  was  Shel- 
ley, astride  the  lank  beast  that  had  borne  him  from  Pisa 
to  Venice.    The  other  was  George  Gordon. 

"So  he  did  come  V'  she  muttered,  peering  through  the 
screen  of  silver  twigs.  "I  thought  he  would.  I  wonder 
what  he  will  say  when  he  finds  I  have  changed  my  mind 
and  settled  Allegra's  affairs  another  way.'' 

She  watched  the  pair  as  they  parted.  The  dropping 
sun  danced  in  tiny  flashes  from  the  brass  buttons  on 
Shelley's  blue  coat.  "Poor  philosopher!"  she  solilo- 
quized with  pitying  tolerance,  ^^ou  are  going  back  to 
your  humdrum  Pisa,  your  books  and  your  Mary.  The 
world  attracts  you  no  more  now  with  your  money  than 
it  did  when  we  found  you  in  the  debtors'  prison.  Well, 
erery  one  to  his  taste!  I  wonder  why  you  always 
iroubled  yourself  about  George  Gordon." 


^48  THE    CASTAWAY 

Her  eyes  narrowed  as  they  lingered  on  the  other  fig- 
ure^ turning  alone  into  the  forest  road  from  which  her 
wagonette  had  come. 

^^  would  like  to  see  your  lordship's  face  when  you  get 
there  I"  she  said  half  aloud.  *'My  authority  is  the  con- 
vent's now.    You  may  take  your  daughter — if  you  can!" 

Not  till  both  riders  were  out  of  sight  did  the  wagon- 
■ette  draw  into  the  highway. 

Jane  Clermont  rode  on,  humming  an  air,  looking 
curiously  at  the  various  vehicles  that  passed  her  on  the 
smooth,  well-travelled  road,  thinking  with  triumph  of 
the  man  she  had  seen  riding  to  Bagnacavallo.  She  had 
guessed  the  object  of  Shelley's  trip  to  Venice,  but  the 
knowledge  had  not  at  first  stirred  her  natural  and  self- 
absorbed  indifference.  It  was  a  malicious  afterthought, 
a  gratuitous  spice  of  venom  springing  more  from  an 
instinctive  maleficence  than  from  any  deeper  umbrage, 
that  had  inspired  that  parting  visit  to  the  convent.  The 
impulse  that  had  led  her  to  assure  herself  of  Gordon's 
fruitless  journey  was  distinctly  feline. 

^  mile  from  the  town  her  reflections  were  abruptly 
broken.    She  spoke  to  the  driver  and  he  stopped. 

A  sweating  horse  was  approaching.  Its  trappings 
were  of  an  ostentatious  gaudiness.  The  face  of  the  man 
it  carried  was  swarthy  and  mustachioed  and  his  bearing 
had  the  effect  of  flamboyant  and  disordered  braggadocio. 

"Trevanion!"  she  exclaimed,  with  an  accent  of  sur- 
prise. She  had  not  seen  him  for  two  years.  As  she 
watched,  her  face  showed  a  certain  amusement. 

He  would  possibly  have  passed  her  by,  for  his  gaze 
was  set  straight  ahead,  but  when  he  came  opposite,  she 
leaned  from  the  carriage  and  spoke  his  name. 


f  THE   CASTAWAY  U^ 

His  Horse  halted  instantly ;  a  hot  red  leaped  into  his 
oriental  cheeks,  a  look  fierce  and  painful  into  his  eyes. 
He  sat  still,  looking  at  her  without  a  word. 

^^I  thought  you  were  in  England,^^  he  said  at  length. 

"So  I  was  till  last  fall.  Since,  I've  been  at  Pisa  with 
the  Shelleys.  But  I  find  the  continent  precious  dull. 
I  see  you  haven't  been  caught  yet  for  deserting  from  the 
navy.  Is  that  why  you  don't  stay  in  London?  Tell 
me,"  she  asked  suddenly;  "where  is  George  Gordon 
mow?" 

'^n  Venice." 

"Eeally !"  Her  voice  had  a  kind  of  measured  mock- 
ery that  did  not  cloak  its  satire.  "And  yet  I  hear  of  his 
doings  in  many  other  places — ^Lucca,  Bologna,  all  the 
post-towns.  From  the  descriptions,  I  judge  he  has 
changed,  not  only  in  looks  but  in  habits." 

He  winced  and  made  no  reply. 

"Pshaw!"  she  said,  scorn  suddenly  showing.  'T)on't 
you  think  I  guessed?  Gulling  a  few  travellers  in  the 
post-houses  with  a  brawling  impersonation!  Suppose 
a  million  should  think  George  Gordon  the  tasteless 
roustabout  ruffian  you  make  him  out?  What  do  you 
gain?  One  of  these  days,  some  tourist  friend  of  his — 
Mr.  Hobhouse,  for  instance ;  he  used  to  be  a  great  trav- 
eller— ^will  put  a  sharp  end  to  your  play." 

"I'U  risk  that  1"  he  threw  her.    "And  I'd  risk  more !" 

^'How  you  hate  him !" 

He  laughed — a  hard,  dare-devil  sound.  "Haven't  I 
cause  enough  ?" 

*^ot  so  far  as  I  know.  But  I  wish  you  luck,  if  the 
game  pleases  you.    It's  nothing  to  me." 

"It  was  something  to  you,  once,"  he  said,  "wasn't  it  ?* 


260  THE   CASTAWAY) 

She  smiled  amusedly.  '^How  tragic  you  always  were! 
He  was  never  more  to  me  than  that'' — she  snapped  her 
fingers.  ^'Constancy  is  too  heavy  a  role.  I  always  pre- 
ferred lighter  parts.  I  am  going  to  play  in  America. 
Why  don't  you  turn  stroller  and  act  to  some  purpose? 
Why  not  try  New  York?" 

While  she  spoke  her  tone  had  changed.  It  had  be- 
come softer,  more  musical.  Her  lashes  drooped  with 
well-gauged  coquetry. 

'Tiook/'  she  said,  in  a  lower  key ;  "am  I  as  handsome 
as  I  used  to  be  at  Drury  Lane — ^when  you  said  you'd 
like  to  see  the  world  with  me  ?" 

A  smoldering  fire  kindled  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  at 
her.  He  half  leaned  from  the  saddle — ^half  put  out  his 
hand. 

But  at  his  movement  she  dropped  the  mask.  She 
laughed  in  open  scorn.  "A  fig  for  your  hate !"  she  ex- 
claimed contemptuously.  ^^I  have  no  liking  for  George 
Gordon,  but  he  was  never  a  sneak  at  any  rate !" 

The  man  to  whom  she  spoke  struck  savage  spurs  to 
his  horse.  As  he  wheeled,  she  swept  him  a  curtsy  from 
the  carriage  seat.  "Joy  to  your  task!"  she  cried,  and 
drove  on  with  her  lips  curled. 

"He  doesn't  know  Gordon  is  near  Eavenna,"  she 
thought  presently.  ^^If  he  gives  one  of  his  free  enter- 
tainments at  the  inn  to-night,  there  may  be  an  inter- 
esting meeting.  What  a  pity  I  shall  miss  it!"  and  she 
laughed. 

A  little  further  on,  the  carriage  turned  to  the  west- 
ward toward  the  Swiss  frontier. 

As  Trevanion  reined  the  animal  he  bestrode  to  its 
haunches  at  the  porch  of  the  osteria,  where  Jane  Cler- 


THE   CASTAWAY,  •  251 

mont's  wagonette  had  waited,  he  looked  ba?;k  along  the 
road  with  a  muttered  curse.  Then  he  kicked  a  sleep- 
ing hound  from  the  step  and  went  in  with  an  assumed 
limp  and  a  swagger. 

Two  hours  later,  when  the  early  dusk  had  fallen,  and 
the  ghostly  disk  that  had  hung  all  day  in  the  sky  was 
yellowing  above  the  olive  trees,  George  Gordon  flung 
his  bridle  wearily  to  a  groom  at  the  inn.  His  face  was 
set  and  thwarted.  He  had  been  to  the  convent,  to  find 
that  a  wall  had  suddenly  reared  between  him  and  the 
possession  of  his  child.  To  surmount  this  would  mean 
publicity,  an  appeal  to  British  authority,  red  tape,  a 
million  Italian  delays, — perhaps  failure  then. 

As  he  stood,  listening  to  the  stir  of  the  inn  he  was 
about  to  enter,  a  low  voice  suddenly  spoke  from  the 
shadow  of  a  hedge :    ^^Excellence  V' 

Turning  he  recognized  the  huge  frame  of  the  gondo- 
lier who  had  borne  Teresa  from  the  Piazza  San  Marco 
on  the  night  she  had  come  to  warn  him.  His  heart 
leaped  into  his  throat.  Had  the  man  followed  him  from 
Venice?    Did  he  bring  a  message  from  her? 

"Excellence !  I  heard  in  the  town  that  you  were  at  the 
inn.  I  would  like  speech  with  you,  but  I  must  not  be 
seen.    Will  you  follow  me  ?^' 

Even  in  his  surprise,  Gordon  felt  an  instant's  wonder. 
He  himself  had  not  yet  entered  the  osteria.  How  had 
the  other  heard  of  his  presence  ?  The  wonder,  however, 
was  lost  in  the  thought  of  Teresa. 

He  turned  from  the  inn  and  followed  the  figure  si- 
lently through  the  falling  shadows. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

TITA  INTERVENES 

Under  the  trees,  as  Gordon  listened  to  the  gondolier, 
the  night  grew  deeper.  The  moonlight  that  mellowed 
over  the  pine  forests  spectrally  outspread,  the  burnished 
river  and  the  town  before  them,  misted  each  hedge  and 
tree  with  silver.  A  troubadour  nightingale  bubbled  in 
the  middle  distance  from  some  palazzo  garden  and  from 
the  nearer  osteria  came  sounds  of  bustle.  Through  all 
breathed  the  intimate  soft  wind  of  the  south  bearing 
the  smell  of  lime-blossoms  and  of  sleeping  bean-fields. 

iWonder  at  Tita's  appearance  had  melted  into  a  great 
wave  of  gladness  that  swept  him  at  the  sudden  know- 
ledge that  she,  Teresa,  was  there  in  Eavenna  near  him, 
mistress  of  Gasa  Guiccioli,  whose  very  portal  he  had 
passed  that  afternoon.  But  the  joy  had  died  speedily; 
thereafter  every  word  had  seemed  to  burn  itself  into  his 
heart. 

"If  he  hated  her,  why  did  he  wish  to  make  her  his 
contessa?  Tell  me  that.  Excellence!  It  has  been  so 
aU  these  weeks,  ever  since  her  wedding.  Sometimes  I 
have  heard  him  sneer  at  her — always  about  you.  Excel- 
lence— ^how  he  knew  she  ever  saw  you  I  cannot  tell! 
His  servants  go  spying — spying,  always  when  she  is  out 
of  the  casa.^* 

(252); 


THE    CASTAWAY  253 

The  man  wlio  listened  turned  his  head  with  a  move- 
ment of  physical  pain,  as  Tita  went  on,  resentfully: 

*'And  she  is  a  Gamba.,  bom  to  be  a  great  lady!  If 
she  left  him,  he  would  bring  her  back,  unless  she  went 
from  Italy.  And  who  is  to  help  her  do  that?  Her 
brother  is  in  another  land.  Her  father  is  sick  and  she 
will  not  tell  him  anything.  There  is  none  but  me  in 
Casa  Guiccioli  who  does  not  serve  the  signore  too  well ! 
I  thought — "  he  finished,  twisting  his  red  cap  in  his 
great  fingers,  "I  thought — ^if  I  told  you — ^you  would 
take  her  away  from  him,  to  your  own  country,  maybe.'^ 

Gordon  almost  smiled  in  his  anguish.  To  the  simple 
soul  of  this  loyal  servant,  on  whom  conventional  morals 
sat  with  Italian  lightness,  here  was  an  uncompiex  solu- 
tion! Turn  household  highwayman  and 'fly  from  the 
states  of  the  Church  to  enjoy  the  plunder !  And  of  all 
places — ^to  England !  Open  a  new  domestic  chapter  in 
some  provincial  British  country-side  as  '^Mr.  Smith,^' 
perhaps,  ^^a  worthy  retired  merchant  of  Lima!^^  The 
bitter  humor  couched  in  the  fancy  made  sharper  his. 
pang  of  utter  impotence.  Italy  was  not  England,  he 
thought  grimly.  In  that  very  difference  had  lain  ship- 
wreck for  them  both.  Teresa  could  not  leave  her  hus- 
band openly,  as  Annabel  had  left  him !  The  Church  of 
Eome  knew  no  divorce,  and  inside  its  bond  only  a  papal 
decree  could  give  her  the  right  to  live  apart  from  her 
husband  under  her  own  father's  roof. 

Tita's  voice  spoke  again,  eagerly:  ^TTou  will  eome, 
Excellence  ?  The  signore  is  from  Ravenna  now,  at  one 
of  his  estates  in  Eomagna — ^you  can  see  her !  None  shall 
know,  if  you  come  with  me.    You  will,  Excellence  ?" 

To  see  her  again !    Gordon  had  not  realized  how  muchi 


254  THE    CASTAWAY 

it  meant  till  to-night,  when  the  possibility  found  him 
quivering  from  his  disappointment  at  the  convent.  A 
stolen  hour  with  her !  Why  not  ?  Yet — discovery.  Her 
husband's  servants,  spies  upon  her  every  moment!  To 
steal  secretly  to  her  thus  unbidden  and  perhaps  crowd 
upon  her  a  worse  catastrophe  than  that  at  San  Lazzarro ! 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  Not  unless  she  knows  I 
am  here  and  bids  me  come." 

"I  will  go  and  tell  her.  Excellence !" 

"Tell  her  I  did  not  know  she  was  in  Ravenna,  but 
that — ^that  I  would  die  to  serve  her.    Say  that  V 

'TTou  will  wait  here,  Excellence  ?" 

"Yes." 

Tita  swung  round  and  disappeared. 

It  seemed  an  immeasurable  time  that  Gordon  waited, 
striding  fiercely  up  and  down,  listening  to  every  sound. 
At  the  inn  a  late  diligence  had  unloaded  its  contingent 
of  chattering  tourists  for  the  night.  He  could  hear 
phrases  spoken  in  English.  The  words  bore  a  myriad- 
voiced  suggestion,  yet  how  little  their  appeal  meant  ta 
him  at  that  moment !  All  England,  save  for  Ada,  was 
less  to  him  then  than  a  single  house  there  in  Eavenna — 
and  a  convent  buried  in  the  forest  under  that  moon.  On 
such  another  perfect  day  and  amber  night,  he  thought, 
he  had  found  Teresa's  miniature  and  had  fled  with  Jane 
Clermont.  Now  substance  and  shadow  had  replaced  one 
another.  To-day  Jane  had  touched  his  life  vaguely  and 
painfully  in  passing  from  it !  Teresa  was  the  sole  real- 
ity. What  would  she  say?  What  word  would  Tita 
bring  ? 

Long  as  it  seemed,  it  was  in  fact  less  than  an  hour  be- 
fore the  gondolier  stood  again  before  him. 


THE   CASTAWAY,  255 

Ten  minutes  later  they  were  in  the  streets  of  the 
town,  avoiding  its  lighted  thoroughfares,  walking  swift- 
ly, Tita  in  the  lead.  At  length,  threading  a  lane  be- 
tween walled  gardens  flanking  great  houses  whose  fronts 
frowned  on  wider  avenues,  they  stood  before  a  columned 
gate.    This  Gordon's  guide  unlocked. 

"I  will  watch  here,''  he  said.  ^'You  will  not  tell  her 
I  came  to  you  first  of  my  own  thought,  Excellence  ?"  he 
added  anxiously. 

'1  will  not  tell  her,''  answered  Gordon. 

He  entered  with  a  loudly  beating  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXV: 

m  THE  CASA  GAEDEl^r 

The  close  was  still — only  Ihe  flutter  of  moths  and  the 
plash  of  a  fountain  tinkling  wetly.  Here  and  there 
in  the  deeper  shade  of  cloistral  walks,  the  moonlight, 
falling  through  patches  of  young  leaves,  flecked  blood- 
less bacchantes  and  bronze  Tritons  nestling  palely  in 
shrub  tangles  of  mimosa.  This  was  all  Gordon  distin- 
guished at  first  as  he  moved,  his  hands  before  him,  his 
feet  feeling  their  way  on  the  cool  sward. 

Suddenly  a  low  breath  seemed  to  pierce  the  stillness. 
A  sense  of  nearness  rushed  upon  him.  His  arm,  out- 
stretched, touched  something  yielding. 

"Teresa!"  he  cried,  and  his  hands  found  hers  and 
drew  her  close  to  him.  In  that  first  moment  of  silence 
he  was  keenly  conscious  of  her  breath  against  his  cheek, 
hurried  and  warm. 

"I  know — I  know,"  he  said  in  a  choked  voice.  "Tita 
told  me  all.  I  would  give  my  body  inch  by  inch,  my 
blood  drop  by  drop  to  give  back  to  your  life  what  I  have 
taken  from  it !" 

She  shook  her  head.  **You  have  taken  nothing  from 
it.  Before  that  night  on  the  square  it  held  nothing — I 
have  learned  that  since." 

She  was  feeling  a  sense  of  exaltation.  Since  the  day 
(256); 


THE    CASTAWAY  257 

at  San  Lazzarro  she  had  never  expected  to  see  him 
again.  To  her  he  had  been  a  glorious  spirit,  struggling 
for  lost  foothold  on  the  causeways  of  redemption.  In 
her  mental  picture  he  had  stood  always  as  she  had  seen 
him  on  the  monastery  path,  pale,  clad  in  a  monk's  coarse 
robe,  the  vesture  of  earthly  penance.  This  picture  had 
blotted  out  his  past,  whatever  it  had  been,  whatever  of 
rumor  was  true  or  false,  whatever  she  may  for  a  time 
have  believed.  Every  word  he  had  spoken  remained  a 
living  iterate  memory.  And  the  thought  that  her  hand 
had  drawn  him  to  his  better  self  had  filled  her  with  a 
painful  ecstasy. 

"Teresa,^^  he  said  unsteadily,  "I  long  ago  forfeited 
every  right  to  hope  and  happiness.  And  if  this  were 
not  true,  by  a  tie  that  holds  me,  and  by  a  bond  you  be- 
lieve in,  I  have  still  no  right  to  stand  here  now.  But 
fate  drew  me  here  to-day — as  it  drew  me  to  you  that 
morning  at  La  Mira.  It  is  stronger  than  I — stronger 
than  us  both.  Yet  I  have  brought  you  nothing  but 
misery  \" 

^TTou  have  brought  me  much  more  than  that,^^  she  in- 
teiTupted.  "I  knew  nothing  of  life  when  I  met  you. 
I  have  learned  it  now  as  you  must  have  known  it  to 
write  as  you  have.  I  know  that  it  is  vaster  than  I  ever 
dreamed — more  sorrowful,  but  sweeter,  too.^^ 

A  stone  bench  showed  near,  wound  with  moonbeams, 
and  she  sat  down,  making  room  beside  her.  In  the 
white  light  she  seemed  unreal — a  fantasy  in  wild-rose 
brocade.  A  chain  of  dull  gold  girdled  her  russet  hair, 
dropping  a  single  emerald  to  quiver  and  sparkle  on  her 
forehead.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  with  a  shadowy  some- 
thing bom  of  those  weeks. 


258  THE    CASTAWAY 

What  he  saw  there  was  awakened  self-reliance  and 
mettle,  the  birthright  of  clean  inheritance.  The  wedding 
gondola  that  had  borne  a  girl  to  San  Lazzarro  had  car- 
ried back  a  woman,  rebellious,  agonized,  flushed  to  every 
nerve.  She  had  opposed  a  woman's  pride  to  the  hatred 
that  otherwise  would  have  made  the  ensuing  time  a  slow 
unrolling  nightmare;  had  taken  her  place  passively  as 
mistress  of  the  gloomy  casa  with  its  atmosphere  of  cold 
grandeur  and  miserliness,  thankful  that  its  host  was 
niggardly  of  entertainment,  enduring  as  best  she  might 
the  petty  persecution  with,  which  the  old  count  sur- 
rounded her.  His  anger,  soured  by  the  acid  sponge  of 
jealousy,  had  fed  itself  daily  with  this  baiting.  He 
believed  she  had  come  smirched  from  the  very  altar  to 
his  name  and  place.  Yet  he  had  no  proof,  and  to  make 
the  scandal  public — ^to  put  her  away — ^would  have  seared 
his  pride,  laid  him  open  to  the  wrath  of  her  kin,  brought 
her  brother  back  to  Italy  to  avenge  the  slight  upon 
their  house,  and  most  of  all  to  be  dreaded,  would  have 
necessitated  the  repayment  of  her  dowry.  A  slow  and 
secret  satisfaction  was  all  he  had,  and  under  it  her  spirit 
had  galled  and  chafed  him.  In  this  strait  she  had  had 
no  confidant,  for  her  father,  aging  rapidly  and  failing, 
she  would  not  sadden,  and  whenever  he  drove  to  Casa 
Guiccioli  from  his  villa,  some  miles  from  the  town, — 
sole  relic  of  his  wasted  properties, — had  striven  to  con- 
ceal all  evidence  of  unhappiness.  Even  when  she  had 
determined  on  a  momentous  step — a  secret  appeal  to  the 
papal  court  for  such  a  measure  of  freedom  as  was  possi- 
ble— she  had  determined  not  to  tell  him  yet.  Grief  and 
repression  had  called  to  the  surface  the  latent  capabili- 
ties which  in  the  girl  had  been  but  promises,  and  these 


THE   CASTAWAY.  259. 

spoke  now  to  Gordon  in  a  beauty  strong,  eager  and  far- 
divining. 

"What  I  have  known  of  life  is  not  its  sweets,"  he  an- 
swered in  bitterness.  "I  have  gathered  its  poison- 
flowers,  and  their  perfume  clings  to  the  life  I  live  now." 

"But  it  will  not  be  so,"  she  said  earnestly.  "I  believe 
more  than  you  told  me  at  La  Mira — ^when  you  said  it 
had  been' one  of  your  faults  that  you  had  never  justified 
yourself.  You  were  never  all  they  said.  Something 
tells  me  that.  If  you  did  evil,  it  was  not  because  you 
chose  it  or  took  pleasure  in  it.  For  a  while  I  doubted 
everything,  but  that  day  at  San  Lazzarro,  when  I  saw 
you — the  moment  you  spoke — it  came  back  to  me.  No 
matter  what  I  might  think  or  hear  again,  in  my  heart  I 
should  always  believe  that  now !" 

He  put  out  his  hand,  a  gesture  of  hopelessness  and 
protest.  His  mind  was  crying  out  against  the  twin 
implacables.  Time  and  Space.  If  man  could  but  push 
back  the  Now  to  Then,  enweave  the  There  and  Here! 
If  in  such  a  re-formed  universe.  He  and  She  might  this 
hour  be  standing — ^no  irrevocable  past,  only  the  new 
Now!  What  might  not  life  yield  up  for  him,  of  its 
burgeoning,  not  of  its  corruption,  its  hope,  not  of  its 
despair ! 

"That  day !"  he  repeated.  '1  saw  you  in  the  gondola. 
I  would  have  spared  you  that  meeting." 

^TTet  that  was  what  told  me.  If  I  had  not  seen  you 
there — ^"  She  paused. 

The  chains  of  his  repression  clung  about  him  like  the 
load  of  broken  wings.  The  knowledge  that  had  come 
as  he  walked  the  floor  of  his  monastery  room  with  the 
burn  of  a  blow  on  his  forehead,  had  spelled  abnegation. 


260  THE   CASTAWAY 

She  must  never  know  the  secret  he  carried — ^muet  in 
time  forget  her  own.  Once  out,  he  could  never  shackle 
it  again.    He  completed  her  sentence : 

"You  would  have  forgotten  the  sooner/^ 

"I  should  never  have  forgotten/'  she  said  softly. 

He  was  silent.  He  dared  not  look  at  her  face,  but  he 
saw  her  hands,  outstretched,  clasping  her  knee. 

Presently — he  could  not  guess  the  dear  longing  for 
denial  that  made  her  tone  shake  now ! — she  said : 

'  "Tita  told  me  that — when  you  came  to  Ravenna — ^you 
had  not  known — " 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  feeling  the  chains  weakening,  the 
barriers  of  all  that  had  lain  unspoken,  yet  not  unfelt, 
burning  away. 

"It  was  true,"  he  answered,  confronting  her.  "I  did 
not  know  it.  But  if  I  had  known  all  I  know  to-night, 
I  would  have  crossed  seas  and  mountains  to  come  to 
you!  Now  that  I  have  seen  you — ^what  can  I  do? 
Teresa!  Teresa !'' 

The  exclamation  held  trenchant  pain — something 
else,  too,  that  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  repress. 
It  pierced  her  with  a  darting  rapture. 

Since  that  hour  at  the  monastery,  with  its  pang  and 
its  reassurance,  as  she  felt  budding  those  new,  mysteri- 
ous flowers  of  faith  and  heart  experience,  she  had  felt 
a  deeper  unguessed  want.  Over  and  over  she  had  re- 
peated to  herself  the  last  words  he  had  said  before  that 
painful  interruption :  "Because  it  was  a  prayer  of  yours 
for  me**  Her  soul  had  been  full  of  a  vague,  unphrased 
yearning  for  all  the  meanings  that  might  lie  unex- 
pressed in  the  coupling  of  those  two  words.    So  now, 


THE   CASTAWAY  261 

as  she  heard  him  speak  her  name  in  that  shaken  accent, 
her  heart  thrilled. 

"Ah,"  she  breathed,  "then  yon  care — so  much?" 

His  fingers  clenched.  He  was  torn  with  two  emo- 
tions: self-abasement,  and  a  hungry  desire,  lashed  hy 
propinquity,  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  defy  vow  and 
present,  be  the  consequence  what  it  might.  There  came 
upon  him  again  the  feeling  that  had  gripped  him  when 
she  stood  with  him  among  the  circling  maskers,  violet- 
eyed,  lilac-veined,  bright  with  new  impulses,  passionate 
and  lovely.  He  leaned  toward  her.  If  she  but  knew 
how  he  cared ! 

A  sound  startled  them  both.  Her  hand  grasped  his 
with  apprehensive  fingers  as  she  listened.  "Look! 
There  beyond  the  hedge.    A  shadow  moved." 

He  looked.    Only  an  acacia  stirred  in  the  light  air. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  reassured  her.  "Tita  is  at  the 
gate." 

"Oh,"  she  said  fearfully,  "I  should  not  have  said 
come.    There  is  risk  for  you  here." 

"What  would  I  not  have  risked?" 

*T.isten!" 

Another  sound  came  to  both  now,  the  pounding  of 
horses'  hoofs,  borne  over  the  roof  from  the  street — the 
rumble  of  heavy  coach  wheels.  It  ceased  all  at  once,  and 
lights  sprang  into  windows  across  the  shrubbery. 

She  came  to  her  feet  as  Tita  hurried  toward  them. 
"It  is  the  signore,"  warned  the  gondolier. 

^'Dio  mio  !'*  she  whispered.    "Go — go  quickly !" 

He  caught  her  hands.  "If  only  I  could  help  you, 
serve  you !" 

"You  can,"  she  said  hurriedly.    "I  have  a  letter  on 


262  THE    CA.STAWAY 

which  much  depends — ^for  the  Contessa  Albrizzi  .it 
Venice.    I  cannot  trust  a  messenger." 

"It  shall  start  to-night." 

'^t  is  in  my  room.  I  will  send  it  after  you  by  Tita. 
Ah— hasten!" 

He  bent  and  touched  his  lips  to  a  curl  that  had  blown 
like  litten  gold  against  her  shoulder.  Her  eyes  met  his 
an  instant  in  fluttering,  happy  confusion.  Then,  as  he 
followed  Tita  quickly  to  the  gate,  she  turned  and  ran 
toward  the  house. 

She  had  not  seen  a  man,  crouched  in  the  shadow  of  a 
hedge,  who  had  hurried  within  doors  to  greet  the  master 
of  the  casa  so  unexpectedly  returned.  She  did  not  see 
the  rage  that  colored  her  husband's  shrunken  cheeks  in 
his  chamber  as  Paolo,  his  Corsican  secretary,  imparted 
to  him  two  pieces  of  information:  the  presence  of  the 
stranger  in  the  garden  and  the  arrival  that  afternoon 
at  the  osteria  of  him  Venice  called  "the  wicked  milord." 

The  old  count  pondered,  with  shaking  fingers.  He 
hated  the  Englishman  of  Venice ;  hated  him  for  robbing 
him  of  the  youth  and  beauty  he  had  gloated  over,  for  the 
arrow  to  his  pride — ^with  a  hatred  that  had  settled 
deeper  each  day,  fanatical  and  demented.  The  story  of 
the  garden  trespasser  inspired  now  an  unholy  craving 
for  reprisal,  unformed  and  but  half  conceived.  He 
summoned  his  secretary. 

In  a  few  moments  more — a  half-hour  after  Teresa's 
letter  had  started  on  its  way  to  the  inn — ^his  coach,  with 
its  six  white  horses,  bearing  Paolo,  and  followed  by  four 
of  the  casa  servants  afoot,  was  being  driven  thither  by 
a  roundabout  course. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

THE  FACE  AT  THE  WIJa)OW 

The  osteria,  as  Gordon  approached,  seemed  gurgling 
with  hilarity.  At  its  side  the  huge  unhitched  diligence 
yawned,  a  dark  hulk  waiting  for  the  morrow's  journey. 
Some  of  the  passengers  it  had  carried  were  gathered  on 
the  porch  hefore  the  open  windows,  listening,  with  pos- 
tures that  indicated  a  more  than  ordinary  curiosity  and 
interest,  to  sounds  from  the  tap-room.  There  were 
women's  forms  among  them. 

Tourists  were  little  to  Gordon's  liking.  They  had 
bombarded  his  balcony  at  Diodati  with  spy-glasses,  had 
ambushed  him  at  Venice  when  he  went  to  opera  or 
ridotto.  To  him  they  stood  for  the  insatiable  taboo  of 
public  disesteem — ^the  chuckling  fetishism  that  mocked 
him  still  from  beyond  blue  water.  He  skirted  the  inn 
in  the  shade  of  the  cypresses  and  passed  to  an  arbor 
which  the  angle  of  the  building  screened  from  the 
group. 

On  its  edge  he  paused  and  gazed  out  over  the  fields 
and  further  forest  asleep.  With  what  bitterness  he  had 
ridden  scarce  three  hours  before  from  those  woods! 

(263) 


264  THE    CASTAWAY 

Now  if  was  shot  through  with  an  arrow  of  cardinal  joy 
whose  very  rankle  was  a  painful  delight.  In  the  jar  of 
conflicting  sensations  he  had  not  reasoned  or  presaged; 
he  could  only  feel. 

What  was  the  import  of  Teresa's  letter,  he  wondered. 
Much  depended  on  it,  she  had  said  in  that  agitated  mo- 
ment. A  thought  flitted  to  him.  The  Contessa  Al- 
brizzi  had  lived  much  in  Eome — was,  he  remembered, 
cousin  to  a  cardinal.  Could  this  message  be  an  appeal 
for  deliverance  from  an  impossible  position?  Might 
Teresa  yet  be  free ;  not  from  her  marriage  bond,  but  at 
least  from  this  hourly  torture  in  Casa  Guiccioli? 
With  the  quick  feeling  of  relief  for  her,  wound  a  sharp 
sense  of  personal  vantage.  For  him  that  would  mean 
the  right  to  see  her  often  and  unopposed.  Yet,  he 
argued  instantly  with  self-reproach,  was  not  this  the 
sole  right  he  could  not  possess,  then  or  ever?  What 
would  it  be  but  tempting  her  love  on  and  on,  only  to 
leave  it  naked  and  ashamed  at  last? 

A  gust  of  noise  rose  behind  him.  It  issued  from  a 
window  opening  out  of  the  tap-room  into  the  arbor. 
On  the  heels  of  the  sound  he  caught  shattered  comments 
from  the  peering  group  on  the  front  porch— feminine 
voices  speaking  English: 

"I've  always  wanted  to  see  him.  We  watched  three 
whole  days  in  Venice.    How  young  he  looks !" 

''What  a  monster!  And  to  think  he  is  a  peer  and 
once  wrote  poetry.  There!  See — ^he's  looking  this 
way  V 

Gordon  started  and  half  turned,  but  he  had  not  been 
observed ;  the  angle  of  the  wall  hid  him  effectually. 

Just  then  a  single  vociferate  voice  rose  to  dominant 


THE   CASTAWAY  265 

apeech  in  the  room — a  reckless,  ribald  utterance  like 
one  thickened  with  liquor.  It  conveyed  an  invitation 
to  everybody  within  hearing  to  share  its  owner's  punch. 
Laughter  followed,  and  from  outside  a  flutter  of  with- 
drawing skirts  and  a  masculine  exclamation  of  affront. 
With  a  puzzled  wonder  the  man  in  the  arbor  listened, 
while  the  voice  within  lifted  in  an  uncertain  song; 

"Fare  thee  well!  and  if  forever. 

Still  forever  fare  thee  well; 
Even  though  unforgiving,  never 
'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel." 

"Shameless  brute  I"  came  from  the  porch.  "I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it!" 

Smothering  a  fierce  ejaculation,  Gordon  strode  to  the 
window  and  gazed  into  the  room.  The  singer  broke  off 
with  a  laugh : 

"That's  the  song  I  always  warble,  gentlemen,  when 
I'm  in  my  cups.  I  wrote  it  to  my  wife — when  I  was  a 
Bond  Street  lounger,  a  London  cicisbeo  and  fan-carrier 
to  a  woman." 

The  man  who  stared  across  the  sill  with  a  painful 
fascination  was  witnessing  a  glaring,  vulgar  travesty  of 
himself.  !N"ot  the  George  Gordon  he  was,  or,  indeed, 
had  ever  been,  but  the  George  Gordon  the  world  be- 
lieved him;  the  abandoned  profligate  of  wassail  and 
blackguardism,  whom  tourists  boasted  of  having  seen, 
and  of  whom  an  eleventh  commandment  had  been  pro- 
mulgated for  all  British  womankind — ^not  to  read  his 
books.  And  this  counterpart  was  being  played  by  a  man 
whose  Moorish,  theatric  face  he  knew — a  man  he  had 
flung  from  his  path  at  Geneva,  when  he  stood  with 


THE   CASTAWAY 


Jane  Clermont  by  the  margin  of  the  lake  on  the  night 
he  and  she  had  fled  together.    A  man  who  hated  him ! 

The  clever  effrontery  of  the  deception  showed  how 
deep  was  that  hatred.  Gordon  understood  now  how 
Tita  had  heard  of  his  presence  at  the  osteria  before  he 
had  entered  it.  The  farceur  inside  did  not  know  the 
man  he  impersonated  was  in  Eavenna  to-night.  This, 
then,  was  not  the  only  caravansary  at  which  the  bur- 
lesque had  been  played.  Nor  were  these  tourists  smirk- 
ing in  the  tap-room,  or  listening  open-mouthed  outside 
to  the  clumsy  farrago,  the  only  ones  to  return  to  Eng- 
land with  clacking  tongues.  This  was  how  the  London 
papers  had  bristled  with  garbled  inventions!  This 
scene  was  only  a  step  in  a  consistent  plan  to  blacken 
his  name  anew  throughout  the  highways  of  continental 
travel ! 

A  guttural  whisper  escaped  his  lips.  It  would  be  an- 
other bar  between  him  and  possession  of  Allegra.  And 
Teresa  ?  If  these  post-house  tales  reached  her  ears !  A 
crimson  mist  grew  before  his  eyes. 

A  more  reckless  and  profane  emphasis  had  come  now 
to  the  carouser  within.  He  had  risen  and  approached 
the  porch  window,  simulating  as  he  walked  an  awkward 
limp. 

"Take  a  greeting  to  England,  you  globe-trotters! 
Greeting  from  Venice,  the  sea-Sodom,  to  London !  Hell 
is  not  paved  with  its  good  intentions.  Slabs  of  lava, 
with  its  parsons'  damned  souls  for  cement,  make  a  bet- 
ter causeway  for  Satan's  corso  !** 

Again  he  turned  to  his  fellows  in  the  tap-room: 
''When  I  shuffle  off  it  will  be  like  the  rascals  to  dump 


THE   CASTAWAY  26r 

me  into  Westminster  Abbey.    If  they  do,  I'll  save  thenk 
the  trouble  of  the  epitaph.    I've  written  it  myself: 

"George  Gordon  lies  here,  peer  of  Nottinghamshire, 
Wed,  parted  and  banished  inside  of  a  year. 
The  marriage  he  made,  being  too  much  for  one, 
He  could  not  carry  oft — so  he's  now  carri-onr 

'Westminster  Abbey !"  said  a  man's  bass  in  disgust. 

Gordon's  left  hand  reached  and  grasped  the  sill.  Hi* 
face  was  convulsed.  His  right  hand  went  to  his  breast 
pocket. 

At  that  instant,  from  behind  him,  a  touch  fell  on 
his  arm  and  stayed  it.    "A  letter.  Excellence." 

He  turned  with  a  long,  shuddering  breath,  and  took 
what  Tita  handed  him. 

"I  understand,  Tita,"  he  answered,  with  an  ejfforl. 
The  other  nodded  and  disappeared. 

For  a  moment  Gordon  stood  motionless.  Then  he 
passed  from  the  arbor,  through  the  hedges,  to  the  spot 
whither  the  gondolier  had  led  him  two  hours  before. 
He  sat  down  on  the  turf  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

He  had  scarcely  known  what  shapeless  lurid  thing 
had  leaped  up  in  his  soul  as  he  gazed  through  the  win- 
dow, but  the  touch  on  his  arm  had  told  him.  For  the 
moment  the  pressure  had  seemed  Teresa's  hand,  as  he 
had  felt  it  on  the  path  at  San  Lazzarro,  when  the  same' 
red  mist  had  swum  before  his  eyes.  Then  it  had  roused 
a  swift  sense  of  shame ;  now  the  memory  did  more.  The 
man  yonder  he  had  injured.  There  had  been  a  deed  of 
shame  and  dastard  cowardice  years  before  in  Greece — 
yet  what  had  he  to  do  with  the  boy's  act?    By  what 


-268  THE    CASTAWAY 

right  had  he,  that  night  in  Geneva,  judged  the  other's 
motive  toward  Jane  Clermont?  Had  his  own  been  so 
pure  a  one  then?  Because  of  a  fancied  wrong,  Tre- 
vanion  had  dogged  him  to  Switzerland.  Because  of  a 
real  one  he  dogged  him  now. 

After  a  time  Gordon  raised  his  head  and  stared  out 
into  the  moonlight.  "It  is  past/^  he  said  aloud  and 
with  composure.  "It  shall  never  tempt  me  again! 
What  comes  to  me  thus  I  myself  have  beckoned.  I  will 
not  try  to  avert  it  by  vengeance.  The  Great  Mechanism 
that  mixed  the  elements  in  me  to  make  me  what  I  am, 
shall  have  its  way !" 

He  rose  slowly  and  walked  back  toward  the  osteria. 
A  groom  was  washing  out  the  empty  diligence.  He  sent 
him  for  his  horse,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  in  the  sad- 
dle, riding  toward  Venice  through  the  silent,  glimmer- 
ing streets  of  Eavenna. 

A  new,  nascent  tenderness  was  in  him.  He  was  riding 
from  her,  the  one  woman  he  loved — ^to  see  her  when  and 
where?  Should  he  ever  see  her  again ?  She  might  have 
hope  of  relief  in  the  letter  he  carried,  but  who  could  tell 
if  it  would  succeed?  And  in  the  meantime  she  was 
alone,  as  she  had  been  alone  before. 

He  rode  on,  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast,  scarcely  ob- 
serving a  coach  with  six  white  horses,  that  passed  him, 
driven  in  the  opposite  direction. 


CHAPTER  XXXYII 

TEEVANIOIT   FINDS  AN  ALLY 

Trevanion,  the  drunkenness  slipped  from  his  face 
and  the  irksome  limp  discarded,  came  from  the  osteria 
door.  His  audience  dwindled,  he  was  minded  for  fresh 
air  and  a  stroll.  Behind  the  red  glow  of  his  segar  his 
dark  face  wore  a  smile. 

Just  at  th0  fringe  of  the  foliage  two  stolid  figures  in 
servant's  livery  stepped  before  him.  Startled,  he  drew 
back.  Two  others  stood  behind  him.  He  looked  from 
side  to  side,  pale  with  sudden  anticipation,  his  lips 
drawn  back  like  a  lynx  at  bay.    He  was  weaponless. 

A  fifth  figure  joined  the  circle  that  hemmed  him— • 
Paolo,  suave,  smiling,  Corsican. 

"Magnificence  V  he  said,  in  respectful  Italian,  "I  bear 
the  salutations  of  a  gentleman  of  Ravenna  who  begs 
your  presence  at  his  house  to-night."  Without  waiting 
answer,  he  called  softly,  and  a  coach  with  six  whitQ 
horses  drew  slowly  from  the  shadow. 

Por  an  instant  Trevanion  smiled  in  grim  humor,  half 
deceived.  A  simultan(30us  movement  of  the  four  in 
livery,  however,  recalled  his  distrust. 

"Are  these  his  hravos  ?  "  he  inquired  in  surly  defiance, 

"His  servants.  Magnificence !" 
(269) 


270  THE   CASTAWAY 

"Carry  my  excuses  then — and  bid  him  mend  the  man- 
ner of  his  invitations." 

"I  should  regret  to  have  to  convey  such  a  message 
from  the  milord."  Paolo  opened  the  coach  door  as  he 
spoke.    The  inference  was  obvious. 

Trevanion  glanced  swiftly  over  his  shoulder  toward 
the  still  hostelry.  His  first  sound  of  alarm  might  easily 
be  throttled.  At  any  rate,  he  reflected,  these  were  not 
the  middle  ages.  To  the  owner  of  this  equipage  he  was 
an  English  lord,  and  lords  were  not  kidnapped  and 
stilettoed,  even  in  Italy.  Some  wealthy  Ravennese,  per- 
haps, not  openly  to  flout  public  disapproval,  chose  thus 
to  gratify  his  curiosity.  Anticipating  refusal,  he  had 
taken  this  method  of  urbane  constraint.  Well,  perforce, 
he  would  see  the  adventure  through !  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  entered  the  coach. 

Paolo  seated  himself,  and  the  horses  started  at  a 
swinging  trot.  Through  the  windows  Trevanion  could 
discern  the  forms  of  the  men-servants  running  along- 
side. He  sat  silent,  his  companion  vouchsafing  no  re- 
mark, till  the  carriage  stopped  and  they  alighted  at  the 
open  portal  of  a  massive  structure  fronting  the  paved 
street.    It  was  Casa  Guiccioli. 

The  Corsican  led  the  way  in  and  the  servants  dis- 
appeared. With  a  word,  Paolo  also  vanished,  and  the 
man  so  strangely  introduced  gazed  about  him. 

The  hall  was  walled  with  an  arras  tapestry  of  faded 
antique  richness,  hung  with  uncouth  weapons.  Opposite 
ascended  a  broad,  dimly  lighted  stairway  holding  niches 
of  tarnished  armor.  Wealth  with  penuriousness  showed 
everywhere.  Could  this  whimsical  duress  be  the  audac- 
ity of  some  self-willed  dama,  weary  of  her  cavaliere 


THE   castaway;  271 

servente  and  scheming  thus  to  gain  a  romantic  tete-d- 
tete  with  the  famed  and  defamed  personage  he  had  cari- 
catured that  day?  Trevanion  stole  softly  to  the  arras, 
•wrenched  a  Malay  kriss  from  a  clump  of  arms,  and 
slipped  it  under  his  coat. 

A  moment  later  his  guide  reappeared.  Up  the  stair, 
along  a  tiled  and  gilded  hall,  he  followed  him  to  a  wide 
stanza,  A  door  led  from  this  at  which  Paolo  knocked. 

As  it  opened,  the  compelled  guest  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  interior,  set  with  mirrors  and  carven  furniture, 
panelled  and  ornate  with  the  delicate  traceries  of  brush 
and  chisel.  In  the  room  stood  two  figures :  a  man  bent 
from  age,  his  face  blazing  with  the  watch-fires  of  an 
unbalanced  purpose,  and  a  woman,  young,  lovely,  dis- 
traught. She  wore  a  dressing-gown,  and  her  gold  hair 
fell  uncaught  about  her  shoulders,  as  though  she  had 
been  summoned  in  haste  to  a  painful  audience.  Her 
eyes,  on  the  man,  were  fixed  in  an  expression  of  fearful 
wonder.  One  hand  was  pressed  hard  against  her  heart. 
Treyanion  had  never  seen  either  before;  what  did  they 
want  with  him  ? 

^TTour  guest,''  announced  Paolo  on  the  threshold. 

''What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  cried  the  girl  in  frantic 
fear,  '^e  is  a  noble  of  England !  You  dare  not  harm 
himr 

"I  am  a  noble  of  Komagna !"  grated  the  old  man. 

It  was  the  real  George  Gordon  they  expected — ^not  he ! 
Trevanion  was  smiling  as  Paolo  spoke  to  him.  With  a 
hand  on  the  blade  he  concealed  he  strode  forward,  pas-fc 
him,  into  the  room. 

'TTour  servant,  Signore,"  said  he,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  him. 


273  THE    CASTAWAY 

There  was  a  second  of  silence,  broken  by  a  snarl 
from  the  old  count  and  a  cry  from  Teresa — a  sob  of 
relief.  She  leaned  against  the  wall,  in  the  reaction 
suddenly  faint.  Her  husband^s  summons  had  filled  her 
with  apprehension — for  she  recalled  the  sound  in  the 
shrubbery — ^and  his  announcement,  full  of  menace  to 
Gordon,  had  shaken  her  mettle  of  resistance.  She  re- 
membered an  old  story  of  a  hired  assassin  whispered  of 
him  when  she  was  a  child.  At  the  insane  triumph  and 
excitement  in  his  manner  she  had  been  convinced  and 
frightened.  Terror  had  seized  her  anew — ^the  shivering 
terror  of  him  that  had  come  to  her  on  the  monastery 
path  and  that  her  after-resentment  had  allayed. 

Now,  however,  her  fear  calmed,  indignation  at  what 
she  deemed  a  ruse  to  compel  an  admission  of  concern 
that  had  but  added  to  her  husband's  fury,  sent  the  blood 
back  to  her  cheeks.  All  the  repressed  feeling  that  his 
cumulative  humiliations  had  aroused  burst  their  bonds. 
She  turned  on  him  with  quivering  speech : 

"Evviva,  SignoreT  she  said  bitterly.  *'Are  you  not 
proud  to  have  frightened  a  woman  by  this  valorous 
trick?  Have  you  other  comedies  to  garnish  the  even- 
ing?   Non  importa — I  leave  them  for  your  guest.'' 

Trevanion's  face  wore  a  smile  of  relish  as  she  swept 
from  the  room.  He  was  certain  now  of  two  things.  The 
old  man  hated  George  Gordon;  the  girl — ^was  she 
daughter  or  wife? — did  not  Had  he  unwittingly 
stumbled  upon  a  chapter  in  the  life  of  the  man  he 
trailed  which  he  had  not  known?  He  seated  himself 
with  coolness,  his  inherent  dare-deviltry  flaunting  to 
the  surface. 

Through  the  inflamed  brain  of  the  master  of  the  casa. 


TEE,   CASTAWAY  273 

as  he  stared  at  him  with  his  hawk  eyes,  were  crowding 
suspicions.  Paolo's  description  had  made  him  certain 
of  the  identity  of  the  man  in  the  garden.  But  his  com- 
mand to  his  secretary  had  named  only  the  milord  at 
the  osteria.  That  the  two  were  one  and  the  same,  Paolo 
could  not  have  known — otherwise  he  would  not  have 
brought  another.  But  how  had  he  been  deceived  ?  How, 
unless  the  man  before  him  was  a  confederate — ^had 
played  the  other's  part  at  the  inn?  It  was  a  decoy,  so 
the  lover  of  his  wife,  with  less  risk  in  the  amour,  might 
laugh  in  his  sleeve  at  him,  the  hoodwinked  husband,  the 
richest  noble  in  Eomagna !    His  lean  fingers  twitched. 

^^ay  I  ask,"  he  queried,  wetting  his  lips,  "what  the 
real  milord — who  is  also  in  town  to-day — pays  you  for 
filling  his  place  to-night?" 

Possessed  as  he  was,  his  host  could  not  mistake  the 
other's  unaffected  surprise.  Before  the  start  he  gave, 
suspicion  of  collusion  shredded  thin. 

*^He  is  in  "Venice,"  said  Trevanion. 

"He  came  to  Eavenna  this  afternoon.'* 

His  enemy  there  ?  Trevanion  remembered  the  laugh 
of  the  woman  in  the  wagonette.  Jane  Clermont  had 
mocked  him !  She  lied !  She  had  come  there  to  meet 
Gordon.  Vicious  passion  gathered  on  his  brow,  signs 
readily  translatable,  that  glozed  the  old  man's  anger 
with  dawning  calculation. 

"You  have  acted  another's  role  to-night,"  Count 
Ouiccioli  said,  leaning  across  the  table,  "and  done  it 
well,  I  judge,  for  my  secretary  is  no  fool.  I  confess  to  a 
curiosity  to  know  why  you  chose  to  appear  as  the  milord 
for  whom  I  waited." 

Trevanion's  malevolence  leaped  in  his  answer:    '^e* 


2U  THE    CASTAWAY 

cause  I  hate  him !  And  hate  him  more  than  you !  In 
Italy  I  can  add  to  the  reputation  he  owns  already  in 
England!  I  want  his  name  to  blacken  and  blister 
wherever  it  is  spoken !    That's  why !" 

The  count  made  an  exclamation,  as  through  his  fe- 
vered blood  the  idea  of  the  truth  raced  swiftly.  The 
town  loungers  had  gaped  at  the  osteria  to  see  the  ca- 
rousal of  the  milord — so  Paolo  had  said.  Why,  it  was 
as  good  as  a  play !    He  Bmiled — and  thought  further : 

The  Englishman  had  been  in  Ravenna  and  had 
eluded  his  grasp.  Here  before  him  was  youth,  clever 
and  unscrupulous ;  if  less  cunning,  yet  bolder — a  hatred 
antedating  his  own — a  ready  tool.  Who  could  tell  to 
what  use  such  an  ally  might  be  put?  The  suggestion 
fascinated  him.  He  laughed  a  splintered  treble  as  he 
rang  the  bell  sharply  for  his  secretary. 

"A  bottle  of  Amontillado!"  he  commanded.  "My 
good  Paolo,  we  drink  a  health  to  the  guest  of  the  casa." 

As  the  secretary  disappeared  Trevanion  drew  the 
kriss  from  beneath  his  coat  and  handed  it  to  its  owner. 
"A  pretty  trifle,"  he  said  coolly;  "I  took  the  liberty  of 
admiring  it  as  I  waited.    I  quite  forgot  to  replace  it." 

"My  dear  friend!"  protested  the  count,  pushing  it 
back  across  the  table,  "I  rejoice  that  you  should  fancy 
one  of  my  poor  possessions !  I  pray  you  accept  it.  Who 
knows?  You  may  one  day  find  a  use  for  the  play- 
thing!" 

They  sat  late  over  the  wine.  They  were  still  con- 
versing when  a  window  in  the  casa  overlooking  the 
garden  opened  and  Teresa's  face  looked  out.  Her 
straining  emotions  had  left  her  trembling.    Who  was 


,THE   CASTAWAY  275^ 

Ihe  swarthy,  fierce-eyed  man  ?  At  the  first  sight  of  him 
she  had  felt  an  instinctive  recoil. 

But  her  puzzle  fell  away  as  she  gazed  out  into  the  soft 
night  with  its  peace  and  somnolent  incense.  From  the 
garden  below,  where  she  and  Gordon  had  sat,  came  the 
beat  of  a  night-bird  bending  the  poppies.  Overhead  tiny 
pale  clouds  drifted  like  cherry-blossoms  in  the  breeze. 
Far  off  the  moon  dropped  closer  to  the  velvet  clasp  of 
the  legend-haunted  hills.  To-night,  foreboding  seemed 
treason  while  her  heart  held  that  one  meeting,  as  the 
sky  the  stars,  inalienable,  eternal.  Gordon  was  safe,  oa 
his  way  to  Venice,  and  with  him  was  her  letter — on 
which  hung  her  hope  for  a  papal  separation, — all  that 
was  possible  under  the  seneschalship  of  Eome. 

At  length  she  closed  the  shutter,  knelt  at  the  ivory 
crucifix  that  hung  in  a  corner  of  the  raftered  chamber, 
and  crept  into  bed. 

She  fell  asleep  with  a  curl — ^the  one  he  had  kissed— 
drawn  across  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE  HEART  OP  A  WOMAN" 

From  the  coming  of  Gordon  on  that  nnforgettable 
night  to  the  garden,  Teresa's  pulse  began  to  beat  more 
tumultuously.  To  offset  the  humiliation  of  her  daily 
life  indoors  and  the  tireless  snrveillance  in  the  person  of 
Paolo  of  well-nigh  her  every  excursion,  she  had  the 
buoyant  memory  of  that  hour  and  the  promise  of  her 
appeal  to  the  Church's  favor.  The  three  essentials  of 
woman's  existence — ^love,  hope  and  purpose — ^were  now 
hers  in  spite  of  all. 

More  than  one  new  problem  perturbed  her.  There  was 
the  swarthy  visitor  coming  and  going  mysteriously, 
closeted  with  her  husband  weekly.  His  strange  entrance 
into  the  casa  that  day  of  all  days — ^the  stranger  ruse  that 
had  been  practised  through  him  upon  her — seemed  to 
connect  him  in  some  occult,  uncanny  way  with  the  man 
of  whom,  every  hour  of  day  and  night,  she  mused  and 
dreamed.  Thinking  of  this,  and  weighing  her  husband's 
hatred,  at  first  she  hoped  Gordon  would  not  return  to 
Eavenna. 

There  had  befallen  another  matter,  too,  which  seemed 
to  have  absorbed  much  of  the  old  count's  attention,  and 

(276) 


THE   CASTAWAY  277 

which",  to  her  relief,  took  him  from  the  city  for  days  at 
a  time. 

Teresa  knew  what  this  matter  was.  In  every  visit  Id 
her  father  he  had  talked  of  it  triumphantly — the  rising 
of  the  Italian  peoples  and  the  breaking  of  the  galling 
yoke  of  Austria.  During  this  spring  strange  rumors  had 
prevailed.  Twice,  morning  had  found  placards  posted 
on  the  city  walls :  ^HJp  with  the  Eepublic  ?'  and  "Down 
with  the  Pope  V  The  foreign  police  were  busy ;  houses 
were  searched  and  more  than  one  Eavennese  was  seized 
under  suspicion  of  membership  in  the  Carbonari, 
whose  mystic  free-masonry  hid  the  secrets  of  enrolling 
bands  and  stores  of  powder.  Knowledge  of  the  syco- 
phant part  her  husband  was  currently  suspected  of  play- 
ing came  to  Teresa  bit  by  bit,  in  sidelong  looks,  as  her 
carriage  rolled  through  the  town,  and  more  definitely 
from  Tita.  The  Austrian  wind  blew  strongest  and 
Count  Guiccioli  trimmed  his  sails  accordingly. 

But  replete  with  its  one  image,  Teresa's  heart  left 
small  space  to  these  things.  Gordon's  face  flushed  her 
whole  horizon.  And  as  the  empty  weeks  linked  on,  she 
began,  in  spite  of  her  fears,  to  long  passionately  to  see 
him  again.  That  her  letter  had  reached  its  destination 
she  knew,  for  the  Contessa  Albrizzi  paused  an  hour  for  a 
visit  of  state  at  the  casa — on  her  way  to  Rome.  But  no 
word  came  from  its  bearer,  and  each  day  Tita  returned 
from  the  osteria  messageless. 

She  could  not  guess  the  struggle  that  had  torn  Gor- 
don— ^the  struggle  between  reasoning  conscience  and  un- 
reasoning desire — or  how  fiercely,  the  letter  once  de- 
livered by  Fletcher,  he  had  fought  down  the  longing  to 
return  to  Ravenna,  which  held  his  child,  and  her.    He 


278  THE   CASTAWAY: 

had  been  able  to  aid  her  once,  prompted  Desire;  she 
might  need  him  again.  If  he  stayed  away  in  her 
trouble,  what  would  she  deem  him  ?  Suppose  by  chance 
she  should  hear  of  the  orgy  he  had  witnessed  at  the 
osteria?  This  reflection  maddened  him.  "Yet/'  Rea- 
son answered,  "not  to  see  her  is  the  only  safety.  She 
is  unhappy  now;  but  can  I — ^because  life  is  ended  for 
me — ^to  bring  her  present  comfort,  run  the  risk  of  em- 
bittering her  life  further  ?"    So  he  had  argued. 

There  came  a  week  for  Teresa  when  Paolo  was  sum- 
moned to  Faenza,  whither  her  husband  had  gone  two 
days  before.  The  espionage  of  the  casa  relaxed,  and  on 
h6r  birthday,  with  Tita  on  the  box,  she  drove  alone 
through  the  afternoon  forest  to  the  Bagnacavallo  con- 
vent with  a  gift  for  the  Mother  Superior,  the  only 
mother  her  childhood  had  known. 

When  she  issued  from  the  gate  again  she  carried  her 
birthday  gift,  a  Bible,  and  a  German  magazine  given  her 
by  the  nun  who  had  taught  her  that  tongue.  In  her 
heart  she  bore  a  far  heavier  burden,  for  in  that  hour  she 
had  held  a  child  in  her  arms  and  listened  to  a  story  that 
had  sunk  into  her  soul.  Her  face  was  deathly  white  and 
her  limbs  dragged. 

Calling  to  Tita  to  wait,  she  left  the  road  and  climbed 
a  path  that  zigzagged  up  a  wooded  knoll  overlooking  the 
narcissus-scented  valley  and  the  hurrying  river  that 
flowed  past  the  convent  walls.  The  briers  tore  her 
hands,  but  she  paid  no  heed,  climbing  breathlessly. 

The  sparser  crown  of  the  hillock  was  canopied  by 
shaggy  vine-festoons  and  dappled  by  the  shadow-play  of 
firs,  whose  aged  roots  were  covered  with  scalloped  fun- 
gus growths.  As  a  child  this  had  been  her  favorite  spot. 


THE   CASTAWAY^  2n 

With  one  of  these  giant  tree-fungi  for  a  seat  she  had 
loved  to  day-dream,  gazing  down  across  the  convent  in- 
closure  and  the  stream  that  flowed  silverly  on,  past  Ea- 
venna,  to  the  sea.  She  stood  a  moment  knee-deep  in  the 
bracken,  her  form  tense  with  suffering,  then  dropped  the 
books  on  the  ground  and  throwing  herself  down,  burst 
into  tears.  She  wept  long  and  passionately,  in  utter 
desolation. 

She  had  listened  to  the  Superior's  story  with  her  face 
buried  in  the  child's  frock,  now  burning,  now  drenched 
with  cold.  The  touch  had  given  her  a  wild  delight  and 
yet  an  agony  unfathomable.  As  she  lay  and  wept,  ten- 
derness and  torture  still  mingled  inextricably  in  her 
emotions.  She  knew  now  why  Gordon  had  been  in  Ea- 
venna  that  spring  day.  He  had  told  the  truth;  it  had 
been  with  no  thought  of  her. 

A  sudden  memory  of  his  words  in  the  casa  garden 
came  with  sickening  force:  "By  a  tie  that  holds  me, 
and  by  a  bond  you  believe  in,  I  have  no  right  to  stand 
here  now."  Was  this  the  tie  he  had  meant?  Not  the 
unloving  wife  in  England,  but  the  mother  of  this  child 
— a  later,  nearer  one  ?  When  he  had  come  that  once  to 
her,  was  it  at  best  out  of  pity  ?  Did  he  love  this  other 
woman?  Was  this  why  she  herself  had  seen  him  no 
more? 

Before  the  acute  shaft  of  this  pain  the  facts  she 
had  learned  of  his  life  in  London  fell  unheeded.  They 
belonged  to  that  far  dim  past  that  he  had  forsaken 
and  that  had  forsaken  him !  But  the  one  fact  she  knew 
now  had  to  do  with  his  present,  here  in  Italy — ^the  pres- 
ent that  held  Tier!  She  was  facing  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  the  hydra,  elemental  passion — jealousy.    And 


2SQf  ,THE   CASTAWAY 

in  the  grip  of  lis  merciless  talons  everything  of  truth 
in  her  wavered. 

For  a  moment  she  lost  hold  on  her  own  heart,  her 
instinct,  her  trust  in  Gordon's  word,  the  faith  that 
had  returned  to  her  at  San  Lazzarro.  What  if  all — 
all — ^what  the  whole  world  said,  what  this  magazine 
told  of  him — ^were  true  after  all,  and  she,  desolate  and 
grieving,  the  only  one  deceived?  What  if  it  were! 
She  drew  the  magazine  close  to  her  tear-swollen  eyes, 
only  to  thrust  it  from  her  desperately. 

''No,  no!''  she  said.  "Not  that!  It  is  a  lie!  I  will 
not  believe  it !" 

In  her  anguish  she  sat  up,  flinging  her  hat  aside,  and 
leaned  against  a  tree.  Her  glance  fell  on  the  great  saf- 
fron fungus  that  Jutted,  a  crumpled  half-disk,  above  its 
roots.  Into  the  brittle  shiny  surface  words  had  been 
etched  with  a  sharp  point — lines  in  English,  almost 
covering  it.  She  began  to  read  the  unfamiliar  tongua 
aloud,  deciphering  the  words  slowly  at  first,  then  with 
more  confidence : 

"River,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls» 

Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love — ^when  she 
Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me — " 

A  color  tinged  her  paleness;  she  bent  closer  in  a 
startled  wonder. 

"What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 
A  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee, 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed! 


THE   CASTAWAY  281 

What  do  I  say — a  mirror  of  my  heart? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art; 

And  such  as  thou  art  were  my  passions  long. 

And  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again. 
Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move; 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onward  to  the  main, 
And  I — to  loving  one  I  should  not  love!" 

She  drew  herself  half-upright  with  a  sob.  She  was 
not  mistaken !  No  other  conld  have  written  those  lines, 
rhythmically  sad  and  passionate,  touched  with  abne- 
gation. He  had  been  near  her  when  she  had  not  guessed 
— ^had  been  here,  in  this  very  nook  where  she  now  sat ! 
Recently,  too,  for  new  growth  had  not  blotted  the  char- 
acters.   Her  heart  beat  poignantly : 

"The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more: 

Will  she  return,  by  whom  that  ware  shall  sweep? 
Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 
I  near  thy  source,  she  by  the  dark  blue  deep. 

She  will  look  on  thee, — I  have  look'd  on  thee. 
Full  of  that  thought:  and  from  that  moment,  ne*er 

Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name  or  see, 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  for  her!" 

For  whom  had  he  longed  when  he  wrote?  For  the 
woman  whose  child — his  child,  denied  him  now! — ^was 
hidden  in  the  convent  below  ?  No !  The  mist  of  an- 
guish melted.    She  felt  her  bitterness  ebbing  fast  away. 

What  else  mattered  ?  Nothing !  Not  what  this  con- 
vent held !  Not  all  his  past,  though'  even  the  worst  of 
all  the  tales  she  had  ever  heard  were  true ;  though  what 
the  pamphlet  at  her  feet  alleged  were  true  a  thousand 


283  THE   CASTAWAY; 

times  over — ^though  it  were  the  worst  crime  of  all  man 
punished  on  earth!  Nothing,  nothing!  At  this  mo- 
ment she  knew  that,  for  all  the  dreams  of  God  bred  in 
her,  without  him,  prayers  and  faiths  and  life  itself  went 
for  naught  as  human  hearts  are  made. 
Clasping  her  hands  she  read  to  the  end : 

,  "Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream,— 

«  Yes!  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now: 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream. 
That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow! 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 
Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth. 

But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot, 
As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be 

In  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love, — at  least  of  thee!" 

Kneeling  over  the  fungus,  absorbed,  she  had  not  Heard 
a  quick  step  behind  her.  She  heard  nothing  in  her 
abandon,  till  a  voice — his  voice — spoke  her  name. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

BARRIERS  BURNED  AWAY 

Teresa  came  to  her  feet  with  a  cry.  Her  mingled 
emotions  were  yet  so  recent  that  she  had  had  no  time  to 
recover  poise.  Gordon's  face  was  as  strangely  moved. 
Surprise  edged  it,  but  overlapping  this  was  a  something 
lambent,  desirous,  summoned  by  sight  of  her  tears. 

In  the  first  swift  glimpse,  through  the  fern  fronds, 
of  that  agitated  form  bent  above  the  fungus,  he  had 
noted  the  tokens  of  returning  strength — and  knew  her 
present  grief  was  from  some  cause  nearer  than  the  casa 
in  Ravenna.  These  were  not  tears  of  mere  womanly 
sensibility,  called  forth  by  the  lines  written  there,  for 
a  shadow  of  pain  was  still  lurking  in  her  eyes.  Was  it 
grief  for  him?  He  tossed  aside  gloves  and  riding-crop 
and  drew  her  to  a  seat  on  the  warm  pine-needles  before 
he  spoke : 

*^I  did  not  imagine  your  eyes  would  ever  see  that!'* 

She  wiped  away  the  telltale  drops  hastily,  feeling  a 
guilty  relief  to  think  he  had  misread  them. 

"This  is  an  old  haunt  of  mine,"  she  said.  "I  loved 
it  when  I  was  a  girl — only  a  year  ago,  how  long  it 
seems ! — in  the  convent  there !" 

He  started.  The  fact  explained  her  presence  to-day. 
She  had  known  those  walls  that  hid  AUegra !    It  seemed 

(283) 


284  THE    CASTAWAY 

to  bring  them  immeasurably  nearer.  If  he  could  only 
tell  her !  Eeckless,  uncaring  as  she  knew  a  part  of  his 
past  had  been,  could  he  bear  to  show  her  this  concrete 
evidence  of  its  dishonor  ? 

Looking  up  at  the  pallid  comeliness  under  its  slightly 
graying  hair,  Teresa  was  feeling  a  swift,  clairvoyant 
sense  of  the  struggle  that  had  kept  him  from  her,  with- 
out understanding  all  its  significance. 

^I  am  glad  I  came  in  time,"  she  continued.  ^^A  few 
days  and  the  words  will  show  no  longer.  I  shall  not 
need  them  then,"  she  went  on,  her  face  tinted.  ^^I  shall 
know  them  by  heart.  As  soon  as  I  read  the  first  lines, 
I  knew  they  were  yours — ^that  you  had  been  here." 

^^I  am  stopping  at  Bologna,"  he  told  her. 

*^Ah,  Madonna  r  she  said  under  her  breath.  ^^And 
you  have  been  so  near  Ravenna !" 

^^etter  it  were  a  hundred  leagues!"  he  exclaimed. 
*^And  yet — distant  or  near,  it  is  the  same.  I  think  of 
yon,  Teresa!  That  is  my  punishment.  Every  day,  as 
I  have  ridden  through  the  pines,  every  hour  as  I  have 
sat  on  this  hill — and  that  has  been  often — I  have 
thought  of  you !" 

"I  knew  that" — she  was  gazing  past  him  to  the  river 
and  the  far  dusky  amethyst  of  the  hills — ^'Vhen  I  read 
what  is  on  the  fungus." 

Thereafter  neither  spoke  for  a  moment.  A  noisy 
cicala  droned  from  a  near  chestnut  bough,  and  from 
somewhere  down  the  slope  came  the  brooding  coo  of  a 
wood-dove.  At  length  he  said : 

"There  were  tears  on  your  cheek  when  I  first  saw  you. 
They  were  not  for  the  verses,  I  know." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.     "It  was  something"— 


THE    CASTAWAY  29& 

ehe  could  not  tell  him  all  the  truth — ^^^something  I  sa^ 
in  that."    She  pointed  to  the  German  magazine. 

He  reached  and  retrieved  it,  but  she  put  her  hand  ont 
his  restrainingly. 

"Is  it  about  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  admitted;  '^ut— " 

"May  I  not  see  it?" 

"Nothing  in  it  really  matters,"  she  entreated.  "It 
could  never  make  any  difference  to  me — now!  Not 
even  if  it  were  true.  Your  past  is  as  if  it  belonged  to 
some  other  person  I  never  saw  and  never  can  know. 
You  believe  that  ?    Tell  me  you  do !" 

"I  do,"  he  responded ;  "I  do !" 

"Then  do  not  read  it." 

"But  suppose  it  is  false.  Either  way,  I  would  tell 
you  the  truth." 

"That  is  just  it."  Her  fingers  clasped  his  on  the 
cover.  "I  know  you  would.  But  I  do  not  believe  what 
it  says!  I  cannot!  You  can  never  have  done  such 
things !  Ah,  is  it  not  enough  that  I  have  that  trust  ? — 
even,"  she  ended  hurriedly,  "though  it  would  make  no 
difference  ?" 

His  pulses  were  beating  painfully.  He  drew  her  fin- 
gers gently  from  their  hold  and  opened  the  magazine 
to  a  page  turned  down  lengthwise.  It  was  a  critique  of 
his  drama  of  "Cain" — sole  fruit  of  that  last  year  in  Ven- 
ice— which  he  had  himself  called  "a  drama  of  madness" 
and  in  sheer  mocking  bravado  had  posted  to  John  Mur- 
ray, his  publisher.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  article 
was  signed  with  the  name  of  Germany^s  greatest  mind, 
the  famous  Goethe. 

She  was  trembling.    *'Kemember,"  she  said  earnestly; 


286  THE   CASTAWAY 

'^I  have  not  asked  you!     I  should  never  have  asked 
you!" 

Gordon  translated  the  cramped  text  with  a  strange 
lurid  feeling,  like  coming  in  touch  with  an  ancient  past : 

"The  character  of  the  author's  life  permits  with  difl5- 
culty  a  just  appreciation  of  his  genius.  Scarcely  any  one 
compassionates  the  suffering  which  cries  out  laboriously  in 
his  poems,  since  it  arises  from  the  phantoms  of  his  own 
evil  acts  which  trouble  him.  When  a  bold  and  impetuous 
youth,  he  stole  the  affections  of  a  Florentine  lady  of  qual- 
ity. Her  husband  discovered  the  affair  and  slew  his  wife. 
But  the  murderer  on  the  next  night  was  found  stabbed  to 
death  on  the  street,  nor  was  there  any  one  save  the  lover 
on  whom  it  seemed  suspicion  could  attach.  The  poet  re- 
moved from  Florence,  but  these  unhappy  spirits  have 
haunted  his  whole  life  since." 

He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  page.  Her  face  was 
turned  away,  her  hand  pulling  up  the  grass-spears  in  a 
pathetic  apprehension. 

"Teresa,"  he  said  in  a  smothered  voice;  *'it  is  not 
true.    I  have  never  been  in  Florence." 

"I  knew — I  knew !"  she  cried,  and  all  her  soul  looked 
into  his.  She  had  not  really  credited.  But  the  tangible 
allegation,  coming  at  the  moment  when  her  heart  was 
wrenched  with  that  convent  discovery  and  warped  from 
its  orbit  of  instinct,  had  dismayed  and  disconcerted  her. 
The  balm  she  had  longed  for  was  not  proof,  it  was  only 
reassurance. 

He  closed  the  magazine.  The  feeling  that  had  choked 
his  utterance  was  swelling  in  his  throat.  For  the  rest  of 
the  world  he  cared  little,  but  for  her ! 

She  leaned  toward  him,  her  eyes  shining.  "I  know 
how  you  have  suffered!    You  have  not  deserved  it.    I 


THE   CASTAWAY  287 

hare  learned  so  much,  since  I  saw  you  last,  of  your  life 
in  England!" 

His  tone  shook.  "Have  you  learned  all?  That  my 
wife  left  me  in  the  night  and  robbed  me  of  my  child? 
That  society  shut  its  doors  upon  me?  That  I  was 
driven  from  London  like  a  wild  beast — a  scapegoat  at 
which  any  man  might  cast  a  stone?" 

"Yes/'  she  breathed,  "all  that,  and  more!  I  have 
not  understood  it  quite,  for  our  Italy  is  so  different. 
But  you  have  helped  me  understand  it  now!  It  was 
like  this." 

She  picked  up  the  Bible  from  where  it  had  fallen 
and  turned  the  pages  quickly.  "Listen,"  she  said,  and 
began  to  read : 

'^And  Aaron  shall  cast  lots  upon  the  two  goats  .  .  • 
But  the  goat  on  which  the  lot  fell  to  be  the  scape- 
goat,  shall  he  presented  alive  hefore  the  Lord,  to  make 
an  atonement  with  him,  and  to  let  him  go  for  a  scape^ 
goat  into  the  wilderness. 

"And  Aaron  shall  lay  both  his  hands  upon  the  head 
of  the  live  goat,  and  confess  over  him  all  the  iniquities 
of  the  children  of  Israel  and  all  their  transgressions 
in  all  their  sins,  putting  them  upon  the  head  of  the 
goat,  and  shall  send  him  away  by  the  hand  of  a  fit 
man  into  the  wilderness. 

''And  the  goat  shall  bear  upon  Mm  all  their  im- 
quities  unto  a  land  not  inhabited:  and  he  shall  let  go 
the  goat  in  the  wilderness." 

He  had  risen  and  now  stood  movelessly  before  her. 
She  looked  up  as  she  finished.    "So  it  was  with  you." 


288  THE   CASTAWAY 

'TTes/'  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  ^'And  so  I  have  lived 
ever  since,  a  mnrderless  Cain  with  a  mark  on  my  brow ! 
So  shall  I  live  and  die,  hated  and  avoided  by  all  men  V^ 

"No  V  she  contradicted,  coming  to  him.  "That  will 
not  be !  I  see  further  and  clearer  than  that !  It  is  not 
for  such  an  end  that  yon  have  lived  and  written  and 
suffered!  But  for  something  nobler,  which  the  world 
that  hates  you  now  will  honor !    I  see  it !    I  know  it  \" 

"Stop  V  he  exclaimed,  "I  cannot  bear  it.  I  am  not 
a  murderer,  Teresa,  but  all  of  the  past  you  forgive  with 
such  divine  compassion,  you  do  not  know.  There  is  a 
silence  yet  to  break  which  I  have  kept,  a  chapter  unlove- 
ly to  look  upon  that  you  have  not  seen." 

"I  ask  nothing  V  she  interrupted. 

"I  must,"  he  went  on  with  dry  lips.  "You  shall  see 
it  all,  to  the  dregs.    In  that  convent,  Teresa, — " 

She  put  a  hand  over  his  lips,  '^ou  need  not.  Por— 
I  already  know." 

He  looked  in  dazed  wonder.  ^TTou  know  ?  And — ^yon 
do  not  condemn?" 

**That  other  woman— do  you  love  her?" 

"No,  Teresa.    I  have  not  seen  her  for  two  years.^ 

"Did  she  ever  love  you  ?" 

"Never  in  her  life,"  he  answered,  his  face  again 
averted. 

Her  own  was  glowing  with  a  strange  light.  'T»ook 
at  me,"  she  said  softly. 

He  turned  to  her,  his  eyes — ^golden-gray  like  sea^ 
weed  glimpsed  through  deep  water — cored  with  at 
hungry,  hopeless  fire  which  seemed  to  transform  her 
whole  frame  to  thirsty  tinder. 


FEELING    HKR    FORM    SWAY    TOWARD    HIM    WITH    FIERCE 
TUMULTUOUS    GLADNESS.    /.   28g. 


THE   CASTAWAY^  289: 

''Ah,"  she  whispered,  ''do  you  think  it  could  matter, 
ihen?'^ 

An  overmastering  emotion,  blent  of  bitterness  and 
longing,  surged  through  him,  beating  down  constraint, 
blotting  out  all  else,  all  that  thrilled  him  finding  its 
way  into  broken  speech.  In  that  moment  he  forgot 
himself  and  the  past,  forgot  the  present  and  what  the 
convent  held — ^forgot  what  bound  them  both — forgot 
grief  and  danger.  London  and  Venice,  Annabel,  the 
master  of  Casa  Guiccioli  drew  far  off.  There  was  noth- 
ing but  this  fragrant,  Italian  forest,  this  whispering 
glade  above  the  blue  rushing  of  the  arrowy  river,  this 
sun-drenched  afternoon — and  Teresa  there  beside  him. 
IWith  an  impulse  wholly  irresistible  he  caught  her  to 
him,  feeling  her  form  sway  toward  him  with  fierce  tu- 
multuous gladness. 

"Amor  mioT  she  breathed,  and  their  lips  clung  into 
a  kiss. 

As  she  strained  back  in  his  embrace,  letting  the  tide 
of  love  ripple  over  her,  looking  up  into  his  face  in 
desperate  joy,  something  swift  and  flashing  like  a  sil- 
Ter  swallow  darted  through  the  air. 

It  sung  between  them — a  Malay  kriss — and  struck 
Gordon  above  the  heart. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  OATH  ON"  THE  KRISS 

Teresa  stood  chained  with  horror — ^the  cry  frozen  on 
ker  lips.  As  the  silver  flash  had  flown  she  had  seen  a' 
dark,  oriental  face  disappear  between  the  bracken  and 
had  recognized  it. 

Gordon  had  shuddered  as  the  blow  struck,  then  stood 
perfectly  still,  his  arms  about  her.  In  that  instant  he 
remembered  the  scene  he  had  witnessed  at  the  Eavenna 
osteria,  and  his  heart  said  within  him:  "Hast  thou 
found  me,  0  mine  enemy?" 

Her  voice  came  then  in  a  scream  that  woke  the  place 
and  brought  Tita  rushing  up  the  path. 

When  he  reached  them,  her  fingers  had  drawn  out  the 
wet  blade  and  were  striving  desperately  to  stanch  the 
blood  with  her  handkerchief,  as,  white  to  the  lips  with 
pain,  Gordon  leaned  against  a  tree.  After  that  first  cry, 
in  which  her  whole  being  had  sounded  its  terror,  she 
had  not  spoken.  Now  she  turned  to  Tita,  who  stood 
dumfounded. 

"Tita,  quickly!  You  and  I  must  help  his  lordship 
to  the  road.    He  is  wounded.'* 

'^eresa,^' — Gordon    sought   for  words   through  the 
(290) 


THE   CASTAWAJ  291 

dizziness  that  was  engulfing  liim, — ^'leave  me.  My  horse 
is  in  the  edge  of  the  forest.  At  Bologna  I  shall  find  a 
surgeon.'* 

'TTou  cannot  ride.  It  would  kill  you.  My  carriage 
is  near  the  convent  gate.'* 

He  shook  his  head.  "You  have  risked  enough  for  me. 
Tita,— '* 

"He  can  bring  the  horse  around/'  she  answered. 
"Come!"  She  drew  one  of  Gordon's  arms  about  her 
shoulder,  feeling  him  waver.    "That  is  right — so !" 

With  Tita  on  the  other  side,  they  began  the  descent. 
She  walked  certainly  along  the  difficult  path,  though 
every  nerve  was  thrilling  with  agony,  her  mind  one  in- 
cessant clamor.  At  the  expense  of  his  own  heart  he  had 
stayed  away.  And  this  was  what  their  chance  meeting 
to-day  had  brought  him.    This ! 

Gordon  was  breathing  hard  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
He  had  fought  desperately  to  retain  consciousness,  but 
a  film  was  clouding  his  eyes. 

"It  is  only  a  few  steps  now,"  she  said,  "to  the  car- 
riage." 

He  stopped  short. 

'^ou  must  obey  me,"  she  insisted  wildly,  her  voice  vi- 
brating. "It  is  the  only  way!  You  must  go  to  Ra- 
venna !" 

"Tita — ^bring  my  horse !" 

It  was  the  last  stubborn  flash  of  the  will,  fainting  in 
physical  eclipse.  With  the  words  his  hand  fell  heavily 
from  her  shoulder  and  Tita  caught  him  in  his  arms. 

At  a  sign  from  Teresa,  the  servant  lifted  him  into  the 
carriage. 

"Home !"  she  commanded,  "and  drive  swiftly.'* 


292  THE    CASTAWAY 

Through  the  miles  of  rapid  motion  under  the  ehon 
shadows  deepening  to  twilight  she  sat  chafing  Gordon's 
hands,  her  eyes,  widened  with  a  great  suspense,  upon  the 
broadening  stain  crimsoning  his  waistcoat. 

In  that  interminable  ride  her  soul  passed  through  a 
furnace  of  transformation.  The  touch  of  his  lips  upon 
hers  had  been  the  one  deathless  instant  of  lifers  unfold- 
ing. In  that  kiss  she  had  felt  poured  out  all  the  virginal 
freshness  of  a  love  renaissant  and  complete,  no  more  to 
be  withheld  than  a  torrent  leaping  to  the  sea.  But  the 
awful  instant  that  followed,  with  its  first  glimpse  into 
the  hideous  limbo  of  possibilities,  showed  her  all  else 
that  might  lie  in  that  love,  of  the  irreparable,  the  disas- 
trous, the  infinitely  terrifying.  Her  marriage  had  been 
a  baleful  bond  of  ring  and  book,  seasoned  with  hate, 
empty  of  sanctity.  His  had  been  sunk  somewhere  in  the 
black  slough  of  the  past,  a  stark  dead  thing.  That  they 
two  should  love  each  other — she  had  imagined  no  fur- 
ther. She  had  known  her  own  heart,  but  that  hour  on 
the  hill  had  been  the  complete  surety  that  Gordon  loved 
her  fully  in  return. 

Bom  of  his  extremity,  there  swelled  in  her  now  the 
wondrous  instinct  of  the  lioness  that  is  a  part  of  every 
woman's  love.  It  lent  her  its  courage.  All  fear,  save  the 
one  surpassing  dread  that  gnawed  her  heart,  slipped 
from  her. 

Dark  fell  before  they  reached  the  town,  and  in  the 
quiet  street  the  freight  of  the  carriage  was  not  noted. 
Before  the  entrance  of  Casa  Guiccioli  stood  her  father's 
chaise. 

Count  Gamba  met  her  in  the  hall,  to  start  at  her 
strained  look  and  at  the  pallid  face  of  the  man  Tita 


THE    CASTAWAY^  293 

carried — a  face  unknown  to  him.  Paolo  was  behind 
him ;  by  this  she  knew  her  husband  was  returned. 

She  scarcely  heeded  her  father^s  ejaculations.  ''Bring 
linen  and  water  quickly  to  the  large  chamber  in  the  gar- 
den wing/^  she  directed,  ''and  send  for  Doctor  Aglietti/' 

Paolo  went  stealthily  to  inform  his  master. 

When  Count  Guiccioli  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
candle-lighted  room  he  came  upon  a  strange  scene.  Te- 
resa bent  over  the  bed,  her  face  colorless  as  a  mask.  Her 
father,  opposite,  to  whom  she  had  as  yet  told  nothing, 
was  tying  a  temporary  bandage.  Between  them  lay  the 
inert  form  of  the  man  against  whom  his  own  morbid 
rage  had  been  amassing.  His  eyes  flared.  Where  had 
fihe  found  him?  Had  Trevanion  bungled  or  betrayed? 
Did  she  guess?  And  guessing,  had  she  brought  him  to 
this  house,  in  satanic  irony,  to  die  before  his  very  sight  ? 

At  the  suspicion  the  fever  of  his  moody  eyes  flew  to 
his  face.  His  countenance  became  distorted.  He  burst 
upon  them  with  a  crackling  exclamation:  "The  Vene- 
tian dog !  Who  has  dared  fetch  him  here  ?" 

"ZiUo!"  said  Count  Gamba  pettishly.  "Don't  you 
see  the  man  is  wounded  T' 

"Wounded  or  whole,  by  the  body  of  Bacchus!  He 
shall  go  back  to-night  to  Bologna  V'  He  took  a  menac- 
ing step  forward. 

"How  did  you  know  he  was  lodged  there?" 

Teresa's  steely  inquiry  stayed  him.  She  had  lifted 
her  face,  calm  as  a  white  moon.  He  stopped,  non- 
plussed. 

"You  had  good  reason  to  know."  She  drew  from  her 
belt  a  Malay  kriss,  its  blade  stained  with  red.     "This 


294  THE   CASTAWAY. 

is  what  struck  him.  It  belonged  to  you.  Am  I  to 
learn  what  it  means  to  bear  the  name  of  a  murderer?" 

Her  father  stared  his  amazement.  ''Dio  santissimo  !*' 
he  exclaimed.    Was  this  why  she  had  been  so  pale? 

Before  her  movement  her  husband  had  shrunk  invol- 
untarily. "I  knew  nothing  of  it,"  he  said  in  a  muffled 
fury;  "I  am  just  come  from  Faenza." 

"I  saw  whose  hand  struck  the  blow."  She  spoke  with 
deadly  quietness.  "I  have  seen  him  more  than  once  un- 
der this  roof.  But  whose  was  the  brain?  Who  fur- 
nished him  this  weapon?  It  was  gone  from  the  arras 
the  day  after  you  brought  him  to  the  casa  to  be  your 
sicario — ^to  do  what  you  dared  not  do  yourself !  Fool !" 
Her  voice  rose.  "Do  you  think  a  peer  of  England  com- 
mon clay  for  your  clean-handed  hravos?  Are  English 
nobles  stabbed  abroad  without  an  accounting  to  the  last 
soldo?  Do  you  suppose  no  Komagnan  noble  ever  went 
to  the  fortress  with  confiscate  estates  ?  Is  your  reputa- 
tion so  clean  that  if  he  dies  you  think  to  escape  what  I 
shall  say?" 

A  greenish  hue  had  overspread  the  fiery  sallow  of  the 
old  count's  face,  ghastly  under  the  candles.  She  had 
touched  two  vulnerable  points  at  once — cupidity  and 
fear.  Something,  too,  in  what  she  said  brought  a  swift 
unwelcome  memory.  He  recalled  another — a  poet,  also 
— Manzoni,  the  Italian,  dead  by  a  hired  assassin  in 
Forli  years  before;  in  the  night  sometimes  still  that 
man's  accusing  look  came  before  him.  Beads  of  sweat 
started  on  his  forehead. 

"Cheeks  of  the  Virgin!"  cried  Count  Gamba,  who 
had  maintained  a  rigid  silence.  "Have  you  no  word  ta 
this?" 


THE   castaway:.  295 

*^He  was  her  lover !  She  knew  where  to  find  him  to- 
day. It  is  not  the  first  time.  He  was  her  lover  before 
I  married  her.'' 

The  other's  hands  clenched.  Teresa's  accusation  had 
astonished  and  shocked  him.  But  as  he  saw  that  cower- 
ing look,  speaking  its  own  condemnation,  he  credited 
for  the  first  time  the  story  of  that  other  slain  man.  At 
this  affront,  his  gaunt,  feeble  form  straightened  with  all 
the  dignity  and  pride  of  his  race. 

Teresa's  answer  rang  with  a  subtle,  electric  energy. 
"That  is  false!  You  never  asked — ^you  only  accused. 
Believing  all  falsehood  of  me,  you  have  made  every  day 
of  my  life  in  your  house  a  separate  purgatory.  I  have 
kept  silent  thus  long,  even  to  my  father.  Now  I  speak 
before  him.  Father,"  she  said  with  sudden  passion, 
^'he  has  believed  this  since  my  wedding  day.  There  is 
scarcely  an  hour  since  then  that  he  has  not  heaped  in- 
sult and  humiliation  upon  me.  I  will  bear  it  no  longer ! 
I  have  already  appealed  to  the  Curia." 

Her  eyes  transfixed  her  husband.  "By  the  law  I  may 
not  leave  your  roof  to  nurse  this  man,  so  I  have  brought 
him  here.  What  you  have  believed  of  myself  and  of 
him  is  false.  But  now,  if  you  will  hear  the  truth,  I  will 
tell  you !  I  do  love  him !  I  love  him  as  I  love  my  life — 
and  more,  the  blessed  Virgin  knows ! — a  million  times 
more !" 

As  she  spoke  her  passion  made  her  beauty  extraordi- 
nary. It  smote  her  father  with  appealing  force  and 
with  a  pang  at  his  own  ambitious  part  in  her  wedding. 
He  had  thought  of  rank  and  station,  not  of  her  happi- 
ness. 


296  THE    CASTAWAY 

^TTou  shall  answer  to  me.  Count,  for  this!"  he  said 
sternly. 

"No,  father!"  ! 

Count  Gamba  looked  at  her  questioningly.  He  faced 
Count  Guiccioli  as  Teresa  went  on : 

"This  is  what  I  demand.  If  he  lives  he  shall  stay 
here  till  he  is  well.  Not  as  a  guest ;  he  would  accept  no 
hospitality  from  this  house.  He  shall  hold  this  wing 
of  the  casa  under  rental." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause. 

"So  be  it."    The  assent  was  grudging  and  wrathful. 

"One  thing  more.  So  long  as  he  is  in  the  casa  you 
will  cause  him  no  physical  harm — ^neither  you  nor  your 
eervants." 

While  he  hesitated  a  sound  came  from  the  bed.  Gor- 
don's eyes  were  open;  they  held  faint  but  conscious 
knowledge. 

From  the  abyss  of  nothingness  those  voices  had  called 
to  him,  like  conversation  in  a  dream.  Sight  had  opened 
more  fully  and  he  had  stared  at  the  gilded  rafters,  puz- 
zled. This  was  not  the  Hotel  Pellegrino  in  Bologna. 
He  stirred  and  felt  a  twinge  of  pain.  With  the  voices 
grown  articulate,  it  came  flashing  back — ^that  one  kiss; 
the  flying  dart  of  agony ;  the  dizzy  descent ;  Tita  and — 
Teresa.  He  suddenly  saw  a  face:  the  old  man  at  San 
Lazzarro,  Teresa's  husband !  He  shut  his  eyes  to  drive 
away  the  visions,  and  her  clear  tones  called  them  wide 
again. 

He  heard  fully  and  understandingly  then ;  knew  that 
Trevanion  and  Count  Guiccioli  had  made  common  cause ; 
realized  the  courage  with  which  Teresa  had  brought 
him  to  her  husband's  casa — all  with  a  bitter-sweet  pain 


THE   CASTAWAY.  297. 

of  helplessness  and  protest  against  the  logic  of  circum- 
stances that  had  thrust  him  into  the  very  position  thai; 
by  all  arguments  looking  to  her  ultimate  happiness  he 
must  have  avoided.  He  heard  her  voice  demand  that 
grudging  promise  of  his  safety.  It  was  then  he  had 
moaned — ^less  with  physical  than  mental  pain. 

Teresa  leaned  to  the  bed,  where  Gordon  had  lifted 
himself  on  his  elbow.  The  effort  dislodged  the  bandage 
and  its  edges  reddened  swiftly.  He  strove  to  speak,  but 
the  effort  sickened  him  and  he  fell  back  on  the  pillows. 

Teresa  turned  again  upon  Count  Guiccioli.  ^'Swear 
it,  or  all  I  know  Eavenna  shall  know  to-morrow  V  She 
held  the  kriss  toward  him,  hilt  up,  like  a  Calvary,  and 
half  involuntarily  his  bent  fingers  touched  his  breast. 

"I  swear,''  he  said  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"Father,  you  hear?" 

"I  am  witness/'  said  Count  Gamba  grimly. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

ASHES  OF  DENIAL 

Days  went  by.  Summer  was  merging  into  full- 
bosomed  autumn  of  turquoise  heavens,  more  luscious  fo- 
liage and  ripening  olives. 

Gordon's  wound  had  proven  deep,  but  luckily  not 
too  serious,  thanks  to  a  rough  fragment  of  stone  in  his 
pocket,  which  the  surgeon  declared  had  turned  the  heavy 
blade,  and  which  Teresa  had  covered  with  secret  kisses 
and  put  carefully  away.  But  to  his  weakness  from  loss 
of  blood,  a  tertian  ague  had  added  its  high  temperature, 
and  strength  had  been  long  in  returning. 

He  had  hours  of  delirium  when  Teresa  and  Fletcher 
— whom  Tita  had  brought  from  Bologna  with  Grordon's 
belongings — alternately  sat  by  his  bedside.  Sometimes, 
then,  he  dictated  strange  yet  musical  stanzas  which  she 
was  able  to  set  down.  It  was  a  subconscious  bubbling 
up  from  the  silt-choked  well  of  melody  within  him :  a 
clouded  rivulet,  findzng  an  unused  way  along  turgid 
channels  of  fever. 

More  often  Gordon  seemed  to  be  living  again  in  his 
old  life — ^with  Hobhouse  in  the  Greece  that  he  had 
loved — in  London  at  White's  club  with  Beau  Brummell, 
or  with  Sheridan  or  Tom  Moore  at  the  Cocoa-Tree.  At 

(298) 


THE   CASTAWAY.  299 

such  times  Teresa  seemed  to  compreliend  all  his  striv* 
ings  and  agonies,  and  wept  tears  of  pity  and  yearning. 

Often,  too,  he  muttered  of  Annabel  and  Ada,  and  then 
the  fierce  jealousy  that  had  once  before  come  to  her  as- 
sailed her  anew.  It  was  not  a  jealousy  now,  however^ 
of  any  one  person;  it  was  a  stifling,  passionate  resent- 
ment of  that  past  of  his  into  which  she  could  not  enter^ 
lying  instinct  and  alive  in  some  locked  chamber  of  his 
brain  to  defy  and  outwit  her. 

Early  in  his  betterment  a  subtle  inducement  not  to 
hasten  the  going  he  knew  was  inevitable  ambushed  Gor- 
don. He  found  folded  in  his  writing  tablet  a  six 
months'  lease  of  the  apartments  he  occupied.  The  sig- 
nature was  his  own,  added,  he  readily  guessed,  during 
his  fever.  The  stupendous  rental  with  which  the  old 
count  had  comforted  his  covetous  soul  was  a  whet  to  the 
temptation.  The  thought  to  which  he  yielded,  how- 
ever, was  the  reflection  that  to  depart  without  show- 
ing himself  to  Eavenna — ^whose  untravelled  gossips  had 
made  of  his  illness  at  the  casa  a  topic  of  interest — would 
neither  conceal  the  real  situation  nor  make  easier  Te- 
resa's position.  He  prolonged  his  stay,  therefore,  riding 
with  her  at  the  hour  of  the  corso  in  the  great  coach  and 
six,  and  later  appearing  at  the  conversazioni  of  the  vice- 
legate's  and  at  the  provincial  opera,  to  hear  the  "Barber 
of  Seville"  or  Alfieri's  "Filippo." 

One  day  a  child  in  Teresa's  care  rode  from  the  con- 
vent of  Bagnacavallo  to  a  father  whom  she  had  never 
seen,  and  thereafter  Gordon  saw  with  less  kaleidoscopic 
clearness  the  walls  of  the  fool's  paradise  fate  was  rear- 
ing, brick  by  brick. 

So  the  lonfij  weeks  of  convalescence  dropped  by  like 


300  THE    CASTAWAY 

falling  leaves.  In  spite  of  the  constrained  oath  he  had 
heard  on  a  certain  night  in  his  chamber,  Gordon  more 
than  once  wondered  grimly  what  hour  a  stiletto  might 
-end  it  all.  That  Teresa  guarded  well,  he  realized  once 
with  a  sudden  thrill,  when  he  opened  the  door  of  his 
bedroom  in  the  night  to  find  Titans  great  form  stretched 
asleep  across  the  threshold. 

The  master  of  the  casa,  meanwhile,  was  seldom  to  be 
«een.  When  he  encountered  Gordon,  it  was  with  snarling, 
satiric  courtesy — a  bitter,  armed  armistice.  Teresa  did 
not  doubt  he  had  been  more  than  once  to  Eome,  but  what 
effect  his  visit  might  have  on  her  petition  she  could  not 
;guess.  The  Contessa  Albrizzi  was  powerful,  but  he  was 
an  influential  factor  also.  If  her  plea  were  granted, 
well  and  good.  If  not,  at  least  she  was  happy  now.  And 
because  she  was  happy  now,  she  thrust  away,  with  a 
woman's  fatuousness,  the  thought  that  there  must  come 
■a  time  when  Gordon  would  go. 

Trevanion  Gordon  met  but  once,  and  then  with  Pa- 
olo at  the  casa  entrance.  A  single  steady  look  had  hung 
between  them.  The  other's  eyes  shifted  and  he  passed 
in.  Teresa  was  with  Gordon  at  the  moment  and  her 
hand  had  trembled  on  his  arjn.  She  said  nothing,  but 
that  night  he  came  upon  Tita  in  his  bedroom,  oiling  his 
pocket-pistols — which  he  did  not  wear. 

What  he  had  said  once  as  he  fought  down  the  pas- 
sion of  murder  in  his  soul  recurred  to  him  as  he  laid 
them  away:  "What  comes  to  me  thus,  I  myself  have 
heckoned.  The  Great  Mechanism  shall  have  its  way.'' 
If  Trevanion  then  had  seemed  the  Nemesis  of  his  past, 
he  seemed  doubly  so  now.  The  vengeance  had  fallen  just 
-when  the  cup  of  joy  was  at  his  lips — ^in  that  one  supreme 


.THE   CASTAWAY  301 

moment:  fate's  red  reminder  that  the  moment  was  noi 
his,  but  filched  from  his  own  resolve  and  from  Teresa's 
peace. 

But  thoflgh  he  struck  not  openl};;^  Gordon  was  soon 
to  discover  that  Trevanion's  hand  was  unwearied ;  Shel- 
ley came  to  him  from  Pisa,  bringing  report  of  fresh 
fictions  afloat  in  the  London  press:  his  pasha-like  resi- 
dence on  the  island  of  Mitylene,  and  his  romantic  voy- 
ages to  Sicily  and  Ithaca.  These  Gordon  heard  with  a 
new  sting,  named  as  his  companion  the  Contessa  Guicci- 
oli,  who,  it  was  stated  in  detail,  had  been  sold  to  him  by 
her  husband. 

Not  that  Gordon  cared,  for  himself.  Save  as  they^ 
might  have  power  to  hurt  her,  that  kiss  on  the  convent- 
hill,  when  it  sweetened  the  bitterness  that  had  fallen 
in  that  hour,  had  burned  away  the  barb  from  all  such 
canards.  All  that  signified  was  Teresa — from  whom  he 
must  soon  part. 

Parting :  that  was  the  sting !  Coiled  in  it  was  a  reali- 
zation that  in  every  conscious  moment  since  that  stab- 
bing thrust  in  the  forest  had  been  rankling  with  grow- 
ing pain.  It  was,  that  his  own  weakness  had  made  with- 
drawal from  her  life  an  infinitely  cruder  thing,  had 
made  his  elimination  at  one  time  less  possible  and  more 
necessitous.  That  kiss  had  changed  the  universe  for 
them  both.  For  either  of  them,  bound  or  free,  nothing 
could  ever  be  the  same  again ! 

Sleepless  and  battling,  the  night  after  Shelley's  visit, 
Gordon  asked  himself  fiercely  why,  after  all,  life  might 
not  go  on  for  them  still  the  same.  Was  it  Ms  fault? 
Had  he  created  these  conditions  that  separated  them? 
iWhat  did  either  he  or  she  owe  this  old  man  who  hated 


302  THE   CASTAWAY 

her  and  had  tried  to  take  his  life?  Hereafter,  would 
not  her  existence  alone  with  him  in  the  casa  be  a  more 
intolerable  thing  than  ever?  He,  Gordon,  could  rob 
him.  of  nothing  he  now  possessed  or  had  ever  possessed. 
Besides,  in  time — ^who  could  tell  how  soon? — changes 
must  inevitably  occur.  In  the  natural  course,  her  hus- 
band would  die.    Then  Teresa  would,  in  truth,  be  free. 

He  paused  in  his  interminable  pace  and  groaned 
aloud.  Wliat  then?  For  himself  there  could  be  no  re- 
tracing of  steps.  Whatever  the  issues  to  him  and  to  her, 
he  could  not  go  back  to  England,  invoke  the  law  and  free 
himself.  When  he  had  quitted  London,  life — the  life  of 
wife  and  home — ^had  seemed  ended.  He  had  thought 
only  of  Ada,  his  child,  when  he  had  signed  that  paper 
which  put  it  forever  out  of  his  power  alone  to  break  the 
tie  which  bound  him  to  Annabel.  Between  him  and 
Teresa  reared  the  law,  a  cold  brazen  wall  between  two 
hearts  of  fire.  *'I  cannot  V  he  said.  'The  old  tie  holds. 
It  is  too  late!  Because  one  woman's  pitiless  pureness 
has  ruined  me,  shall  I  ruin  another  woman's  pitying 
purity?" 

So  while  the  dark  wore  away  to  dawn,  his  thought  be- 
gan and  ended  with  the  same  desolate  cry. 

As  the  first  light  came  through  the  windows,  he  blew 
out  the  candles.  He  must  go — though  it  shut  him  again 
from  sight  of  Allegra — ^thaugh  it  meant  forever. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

GORDON"  TELLS  A  STORY 

Gordon  threw  the  window  wide.  The  sun  had  broken 
through  the  mist,  the  lilies  were  awake  in  their  beds,  and 
the  acacias  were  shaking  the  dew  from  their  solemn  har- 
monies of  green  and  olive.  How  sweet  the  laurel 
smelled ! 

A  long  time  he  stood  there.  At  length  he  turned  into 
the  room.  He  collected  his  smaller  belongings  for 
Fletcher  to  pack,  then  drew  out  a  portmanteau.  It  was 
filled  with  books  and  loose  manuscript,  gathered  by  the 
valet  when  he  had  removed  from  Venice. 

As  he  re-read  the  pages,  Gordon  flushed  with  a  sense 
of  shame.  Full  of  beauty  as  they  were,  would  Shelley 
have  written  them?  Or  would  Teresa,  who  treasured 
one  book  of  his  and  had  loved  those  simple  lines  etched 
on  the  fungus,  read  these  with  like  approval  ? 

An  aching  dissatisfaction — a  fiery  recrudescent  dis- 
taste seized  him.  He  rolled  the  leaves  together  and  de- 
scended t«  the  garden.  At  the  base  of  a  stone  sun-dial 
he  set  the  roll  funnel-shape  and  knelt  to  strike  a  light. 

He  had  not  seen  Teresa  nor  heard  her  approach  till 
she  caught  his  arm. 

*^What  is  it  you  bum?"  she  asked. 
(303) 


304  THE   CASTAWAY 

'The  Beginning  of  a  poem  I  wrote  a  long  time  ago, 
named  T[)on  Juan'," 

"May  I  read  it  first?" 

He  shook  his  head.    "It  is  not  worthy." 

She  looked  at  him  seriously,  striving  to  translate  his 
thought,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse,  stooped  and  picked 
up  the  roll.  "Do  not  destroy  it/'  she  said;  "one  day 
you  will  finish  it — ^more  worthily." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  thrust  the  manuscript 
into  his  pocket  and  followed  her  to  the  bench  where 
they  had  sat  the  night  Tita  had  led  him  to  the  columned 
gate,  and  how  many  gilded  days  since !  With  what  words 
should  he  tell  her  what  he  must  say  ? 

He  saw  that  she  held  in  her  hand  a  small  rough  frag- 
ment of  stone. 

'^hat  is  that  ?"  he  questioned,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 
^'A  jewel?" 

A  change  passed  over  her  face  and  she  raised  the  stone 
to  her  lips.  ^TTes,"  she  answered ;  "do  you  not  recognize 
it?" 

As  he  looked  at  it  curiously,  she  added :  "It  was  in 
your  pocket  that  day  on  the  convent  hill.  You  never 
missed  it,  did  you?  The  kriss" — she  shuddered  as  she 
spoke — "struck  it.  See — ^here  is  the  mark.  It  saved 
your  life." 

Wondering,  he  took  it  from  her  hand.  "Strange!" 
he  said,  as  he  handed  it  back.  "It  is  a  piece  of  the 
tomb  of  Juliet  which  I  got  long  ago  in  Verona." 

"Juliet?"  she  repeated,  and  dropped  the  stone  on  the 
bench  between  them,  coloring.  "Did  you — care  for 
her?" 

The  feminine  touch  in  tone  and  gesture  brought  Gor- 


THE   CASTAWAY  305 

don  ai  one  time  a  smile  and  a  pang.  It  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  that  Shakespeare  could  be  unknown  to 
her.  "All  Englishmen  love  her/'  he  said  gravely;  "she 
was  one  of  the  great  lovers  of  the  world.  She  died  &ve 
hundred  years  ago." 

Her  face  was  flushed  more  deeply  now.  "Will  you 
tell  me  about  her  ?" 

Sitting  there,  the  revelation  of  the  early  morning 
enfolding  them,  he  told  her  the  undying  story  of  those 
tragic  loves  and  deaths  that  the  great  Anglo-Saxon  gave 
to  all  ages. 

"There  were  two  noble  families  in  Verona/'  he  be- 
gan, "who  for  generations  had  been  at  enmity — ^the 
Capulets  and  the  Montagues.  Juliet  was  the  daughter 
of  Lord  Capulet.  She  was  so  beautiful  her  fame  went 
throughout  the  country.  Komeo,  scion  of  the  house  of 
Montague,  heard  of  her  beauty,  and  to  see  it,  went 
masked  to  a  fete  given  by  her  father.  Among  the  Vero- 
nese ladies,  he  saw  one  who  shone  amid  the  splendor 
like  a  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear.  They  danced  together, 
and  he  kissed  her  hand.  Not  till  they  parted  did  either 
know  the  other  was  an  enemy.  That  night,  Romeo, 
unable  to  stay  from  the  house  where  he  had  left  his 
heart,  scaled  the  wall  of  its  garden  and  they  plighted 
troth  upon  her  balcony.  Next  day  they  were  secretly 
married  by  a  monk  whom  Eomeo  had  prevailed  upon. 

"There  had  been  one,  however,  who,  beneath  his  mask, 
recognized  the  uninvited  guest — a  nephew  of  Lord 
Capulet  himself.  He  kept  silence  then,  but  the  day  of 
the  marriage  he  met  Romeo,  forced  a  quarrel,  and  was 
killed  by  him.  For  this,  Romeo  was  sentenced  to  ban- 
ishment.   That  night  he  gained  Juliet's  chamber  froni 


306  THE   CASTAWAY 

the  garden.  Only  these  few  hours  were  theirs ;  at  dawn 
he  fled  to  Mantua,  till  the  monk  could  make  public  their 
marriage. 

*^Lord  Capulet  meanwhile  had  selected  another  for 
Juliet's  husband  and  bade  her  prepare  for  the  nuptials. 
She  dared  not  tell  the  truth,  and  in  her  extremity  ap- 
pealed to  the  monk.  He  counselled  her  to  consent  to  her 
father's  plans,  and  on  the  night  before  the  marriage  to 
drink  the  contents  of  a  phial  he  gave  her.  The  potion, 
he  told  her,  would  cause  a  death-like  trance,  in  which 
apparently  lifeless  state  she  should  be  laid  in  the  family 
vault.  Thither  he  would  bring  Komeo  in  the  night  and 
she  should  awaken  in  his  arms." 

Teresa's  eyes  had  grown  brighter.  The  lovers'  meet- 
ing among  the  maskers,  the  garden  trothing  and  the 
constrained  marriage  seemed  somehow  to  fit  her  own 
case.  She  leaned  forward  as  he  paused.  "And  she 
took  the  potion?" 

"Yes.  Love  and  despair  gave  her  courage.  It  hap- 
pened partly  as  the  monk  had  said.  But  unluckily  the 
news  that  Juliet  was  dead  travelled  to  Mantua  faster 
than  his  letters.  Eomeo  heard,  and  heart-broken,  came 
to  Verona  at  midnight,  broke  open  her  tomb  and  swal- 
lowed poison  by  her  side.  A  few  moments  later  she 
awoke,  saw  the  cup  in  his  hand,  and,  guessing  how  it 
had  befallen,  unsheathed  the  dagger  he  wore  and  died 
also  by  her  own  hand.  So  the  monk  found  them,  and 
over  their  bodies  the  lords  of  Capulet  and  Montague 
healed  the  feud  of  their  houses." 

The  bruised  petals  of  a  rose  Teresa  had  plucked  flut- 
tered down.    "How  she  loved  him !"  she  said  softly. 

He  remembered  that  among  the  volumes  in  the  port- 


THE   CASTAWAY.     "  307 

manteau  he  had  opened  had  been  the  "Eomeo  and 
Juliet/'  which  he  had  put  into  his  pocket  the  night  he 
left  England.  "I  have  the  book/'  he  said  rising;  "I 
will  give  it  to  you/' 

He  went  back  under  the  flowering  trees  to  fetch  it. 
"This  one  hour/'  his  heart  was  repeating;  "this  last 
hour !    Then  I  will  tell  her." 

He  was  gone  but  a  few  moments.  When  he  came 
down  the  stair  she  was  in  the  hall.  He  paused,  for  a 
man  who  had  just  dismounted  at  the  casa  entrance 
stood  before  her.  Gordon  saw  Teresa  sink  to  her  knees, 
saw  the  other  make  the  sign  above  her  head  as  he  hand- 
ed her  a  letter,  saw  him  mount  and  ride  away ;  saw  her 
read  and  crush  it  to  her  breast.  What  did  it  mean? 
The  man  had  worn  the  uniform  of  a  nuncio  of  the  papal 
see.    Had  the  Contessa  Albrizzi  succeeded  ? 

Teresa  turned  from  the  entrance  and  saw  him. 

"Here  is  the  book/'  he  said. 

She  took  it  blankly.  Suddenly  she  thrust  the  letter 
into  his  hands.  ,  "Eead  it/'  she  whispered. 

It  was  the  pope's  decree.  Teresa  was  free,  if  not 
from  the  priestly  bond,  at  least  so  far  as  actions  went. 
Free  to  leave  Casa  Guiccioli  and  to  live  under  her  fa- 
ther's roof — free  as  the  law  of  Church  and  land  could 
make  her.  But  that  was  not  all.  The  decree  had  its 
conditions,  and  one  of  these  contained  his  own  name. 
She  was  to  see  him  only  once  each  month,  between  noon 
and  sunset. 

Such  was  Count  Guiccioli's  sop  from  Eome. 

As  Gordon  read,  he  felt  a  dull  anger  at  the  assump- 
tion that  had  coupled  his  name  with  hers  in  that  docu- 
ment.   Yet  underneath  he  was  conscious  of  a  painful 


308  THE    CASTAWAY 

relief;  fate  had  partially  solved  the  problem  for  therflf 
He  raised  his  eyes  as  a  sob  came  from  Teresa's  lips. 

She  had  not  thought  of  possible  conditions.  A^ 
month — ^how  swiftly  the  last  had  flown! — seemed  sud- 
denly an  infinity.  She  had  longed  for  that  message^ 
prayed  for  it ;  now  she  hated  it. 

Another  figure  entered  at  that  instant  from  the 
street.  It  was  Tita,  just  from  her  father's  villa.  Count 
Gamba  had  been  less  well  of  late,  and  now  the  messen- 
ger's face  held  an  anxiety  that  struck  through  her  own 
grief. 

The  news  was  soon  told.  Her  father  had  had  a  syn- 
cope at  daybreak  and  the  doctor  was  then  with  him. 

Tita  did  not  tell  her  the  whole :  she  did  not  learn  till 
she  reached  the  villa  that  Count  Gamba,  suspected  of 
fomenting  the  revolution,  had  received  notice  from  the 
government  to  quit  Eomagna  within  ten  days. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

OKE    GOLDEK   HOUR 

"To-day — to-day!"  Teresa's  heart  said.  "To-day  lie 
will  come  !" 

Just  a  month  ago  she  had  left  Casa  Guiccioli  forever; 
now  she  sat  in  the  fountained  garden  of  the  Gamba 
villa,  a  few  miles  from  Ravenna,  rose-pale,  cypress-slen- 
der, her  wanness  accentuated  by  the  black  gown  she 
wore — the  habit  of  mourning.  The  sentence  of  exile 
against  Count  Gamba  had  never  been  carried  out ;  a 
greater  than  Austria  had  intervened.  Since  that  morn- 
ing when  a  servant  had  found  him  unconscious  among 
the  cold  retorts  of  his  laboratory,  clasping  the  decree 
that  had  broken  his  heart,  he  had  revived,  but  only  to 
fail  again.  The  end  had  come  soon.  A  week  ago 
Teresa  had  followed  him  to  the  narrow  home  over  which 
no  earthly  power  claimed  Jurisdiction. 

As  she  sat,  drenched  with  the  attar  of  the  September 
afternoon,  in  her  lap  the  ''Romeo  and  Juliet"  which  Gor- 
don had  given  her  on  their  last  meeting,  gladness  crept 
goldenly  through  her  grief.  The  book  had  lain  on  the 
arbor  bench  during  the  night,  and  this  morning  she  had 

(309) 


310  THE   castaway; 

found  a  letter  written  on  its  blank  title  page.    For  the 
hundredth  time  she  perused  it  now : 

"I  have  found  this  book  in  your  garden  and  re-read  It 
in  the  moonlight.  You  were  absent,  or  I  could  not  have 
done  so.  Others  would  understand  these  words  if  I  wrote 
them  in  Italian,  but  you  will  interpret  them  in  English. 
You  will  recognize,  too,  the  handwriting  of  one  who  loves 
you  and  will  divine  that  over  any  book  of  yours  he  can 
think  only  of  that  fact.  In  that  word,  beautiful  in  all 
languages,  but  most  so  in  yours — amor  mio — ^is  comprised 
my  existence  here  and  hereafter.  My  destiny  has  rested 
with  you,  and  you  are  a  woman,  nineteen  years  of  age,  and 
but  two  out  of  a  convent.  Fate  has  separated  us,  but  to 
weigh  this  is  now  too  late.  I  love  you  and  cannot  cease 
to  love  you.  Will  you  think  of  me  if  the  Alps  and  the 
ocean  divide  us?  Ah, — ^but  they  never  can  unless  you 
wish  it!" 

This  letter  had  been  wrung  from  him  by  the  thought 
of  the  loss  and  loneliness  in  which  he  could  not  comfort 
her ;  beneath  its  few  words  lay  the  strain  and  longing  of 
the  old  struggle.  He  had  told  himself  at  first  that  her 
separation  could  make  no  difference  with  his  going.  But 
now  she  was  alone,  bereft^  saddened.  If  he  went,  could 
she  love  him  any  the  less  ?  So  he  had  wrestled  as  Jacob 
wrestled  with  the  angel. 

As  Teresa  read,  a  moving  shadow  fell  on  the  page. 
She  looked  up  to  see  him  coming  between  the  clipped 
yew  hedges.  In  another  moment  he  had  caught  her 
hands  in  his. 

"How  you  have  suffered !"  he  said,  his  gaze  searching 
her  face,  to  which  a  glad  flush  had  leaped. 

She  framed  his  head  in  her  arms,  just  touching  his 
strong  brown  curling  hair  with  its  slender  threads  of 


THE   CASTAWAY.  311 

gray.  ^^I  knew  yon  cared.  I  knew  you  had  been  near 
me  often.    I  found  the  flowers — and  this  note.'' 

*T!  have  been  here  in  the  garden  every  night.  I  was 
here  that  one  night,  too — when  you  were  first  alone/' 

Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"It  was  the  decree  of  exile  that  killed  him/'  she  said 
slowly.  "He  loved  Italy  and  hoped  for  what  can  never 
be.  They  say  the  uprising  in  the  north  has  failed  and 
all  its  chiefs  are  betrayed.  That  is  the  bitterness  of  it: 
it  was  for  nothing  after  all  that  he  died!  Italy  will 
not  be  free.    You  believe  it  cannot,  I  know." 

"Sometime/'  he  answered  gently.  "But  not  soon. 
Italy's  peasants  are  not  fighting  men  like  the  Greeks; 
they  lack  the  inspiration  of  history.  But  no  man  cham- 
pions a  great  cause  in  vain.  And  now/'  he  asked,  chang- 
ing the  subject,  "what  shall  you  do  ?" 

'^1  have  sent  the  news  to  my  brother  Pietro.  Cavadja 
has  lost  his  principality  and  Prince  Mavrocordato  is 
in  flight  from  Wallachia.  Pietro  is  with  him.  My  let- 
ters must  find  and  bring  him  soon.  Till  then  I  have 
Elise — she  was  my  nurse.  I  shall  be  glad  when  Pietro 
comes.  How  long  it  is  since  I  have  seen  him!  He 
would  not  know  me  now.  He  has  only  my  convent 
miniature  to  remind  him !" 

Gordon's  thought  fled  back  to  a  day  when  he  had 
swum  for  the  brother's  life  and  found  that  pictured 
ivory.  Fate  had  played  an  intricate  game.  He  would 
more  than  once  have  told  her  of  that  incident  but  for 
another  hounding  memory — ^the  recollection  of  the  mad 
fit  of  rage  in  which  he  had  ground  the  miniature  under 
his  heel.    He  could  not  tell  her  that ! 


312  THE  CASTAWAY 

"I  know  why  you  have  stayed  on  at  the  casa/'  she  said; 
*'that  it  is  for  my  sake,  to  spare  me  idle  tongues.  Yet 
I  have  been  so  afraid  for  you.  You  would  never  go 
armed !" 

"I  am  in  small  danger,"  he  smiled,  ^'Fletcher,  and 
Tita  whom  you  left  me  for  body-guard,  watch  zealously. 
One  or  the  other  is  always  under  foot.  One  would  think 
I  were  Ali  Pasha  himself." 

He  spoke  half  humorously,  trying  to  coax  the  smile 
back  to  her  lips.  He  did  not  tell  her  with  what  danger 
and  annoyances  his  days  had  been  filled:  that  police 
spies,  in  whose  assiduity  he  recognized  the  work  of  her 
husband  and  Trevanion,  shadowed  his  footsteps;  that 
to  excite  attempts  at  his  assassination  the  belief  had 
even  been  disseminated  that  he  was  in  league  with  the 
Austrians.  Nor  did  he  tell  her  that  this  very  morning 
Fletcher  had  found  posted  in  the  open  market-place  a 
proclamation  too  evidently  inspired  by  secret  service 
agents,  denouncing  him  as  an  enemy  to  the  morals, 
the  literature  and  the  politics  of  Italy.  He  had  long 
ago  cautioned  Tita  against  carrying  her  news  of  these 
things. 

As  they  strolled  among  the  dahlias,  straight  and  tall 
as  the  oleanders  in  the  river  beds  of  Greece,  she  told 
him  of  her  father's  last  hourS;  and  her  life  in  the  villa, 
brightened  only  by  Tita's  daily  visits  from  the  casa. 

"What  have  you  been  writing?"  she  questioned, 
"Has  it  been  *Don  Juan  ?' " 

He  shook  his  head.  The  hope  she  had  expressed — 
that  he  would  some  day  finish  it  more  [worthily — had 
clung  to  him  like  ivy.  With  an  instinct  having  its  root 
deeper  than  his  innate  hatred  of  hypocrisy,  he  had  for- 
forwarded  the  earlier  cantos  when  learning  she  had  pre- 


THE   CASTAWAY.  313' 

vented  io  John  Murray  in  London  for  pnblicatioiu 
This  instinct  was  not  kin  to  the  bravado  with  which  he 
had  sent  "Cain'^  from  Venice ;  it  was  a  crude  but  grow- 
ing prescience  that  he  must  one  day  stand  before  the' 
world  by  all  he  had  written  and  that  the  destructioiE 
even  of  its  darker  pages  would  mutilate  his  life's  vol- 
ume. But  he  had  not  yet  continued  the  poem.  Think- 
ing of  this  he  sighed  before  he  asked  her : 

"Have  you  read  all  the  books  I  sent  ?" 

"Many  of  them.  But  I  liked  this'^ — she  touched  the 
*'Eomeo  and  Juliet'^ — ^^^most  of  all.'^ 

"It  is  scarce  a  tale  for  sad  hours/^  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  over  hers  on  the  slim  leather. 

Her  fingers  crept  into  his,  as  she  went  on  earnestly: 
,'^The  stone  you  brought  from  Verona  makes  it  seem  so 
true !  Do  you  suppose  it  really  happened  so  ?  What  do 
you  think  was  the  potion  the  monk  gave  her?'' 

"A  drachm  of  mandragora,  perhaps.  That  is  said  to 
produce  the  cataleptic  trance.  I  wish  Juliet's  monk 
:  mixed  his  drafts  in  Eavenna  now/'  he  added  with  a; 
;  touch  of  bitterness ;  "I  shall  often  long  for  such  a  nepen- 
[the  before  the  next  moon,  Teresa." 
^  He  felt  her  fingers  quiver.  The  thought  of  the  coming 
I  long  month  shook  her  heart.  ^TTou  will  go  from  Ea" 
iVenna  before  that,"  she  whispered,  "shall  you  not?" 

"From  the  casa,  perhaps.  Not  from  near  you.  The 
day  you  left  Casa  Guiccioli  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
leave  Italy.  But  now — ^now — ^the  only  thing  I  see  cer- 
tainly is  that  I  cannot  go  yet.  ITot  till  the  skies  are 
brighter  for  you." 

"Can  they  ever  be  brighter — ^if  you  go  ?" 

'^You  must  not  tempt  me  beyond  my  strength,"  he 


314  THE    CASTAWAY 

answered,  a  dumb  pain  on  his  lips.  "Ah,  forgive  me! 
I  did  not  mean — " 

"Tempt  yon !    Have  I  done  that  ?" 

"It  is  my  own  heart  tempts  me — ^not  yon !  It  is  that 
I  cannot  trust  V 

"/  can  trust  it/'  she  said  under  her  breath.  Her  eyes 
were  luminous  and  tender.  "It  is  all  I  have  to  trust 
now." 

His  strength  was  melting.  He  would  have  taken  her 
into  his  arms,  but  the  neigh  of  his  tethered  horse  and  a 
familiar  answering  whinny  came  across  the  yews. 

'T!t  is  Fletcher,'^  he  said  in  surprise.  He  crossed  the 
garden  to  meet  him. 

"What  is  it,  Fletcher?"  he  demanded.  "Why  have 
you  left  the  rooms  ?" 

"My  lord!"  stammered  the  valet,  "did  you  mot  send 
forme?" 

"No." 

Fletcher  looked  crestfallen. 

"Who  gave  you  such  a  message  ?" 

'^Count    Guiccioli's  secretary,  your  lordship." 

A  disquieting  apprehension  touched  Gordon's  mind» 
Why  had  Paolo  sent  the  servant  on  this  sleeveless  errand 
— unless  he  were  wished  out  of  the  way?  He  remem- 
bered a  packet  which  Count  Gamba,  weeks  before,  had 
entrusted  to  him  for  safe-keeping.  At  the  time  Gordon 
had  suspected  its  contents  had  to  do  with  the  CarbonarVs 
plans.  This  packet  was  in  his  apartments.  Found, 
might  it  inculpate  the  dead  man's  friends  in  that  lost 
cause? 

He  rejoined  Teresa  with  a  hasty  excuse  for  his  return 
to  the  casa. 


THE   CASTAWAY    ^  315 

'TTou  will  come  back?"  She  questioned  with  sudden 
vague  foreboding. 

^^es,  before  sunset/' 

"Promise  me — promise  me  V 

For  one  reassuring  moment  he  put  his  arm  about  her, 
aching  to  fold  her  from  all  the  world.  The  past  for 
them  both  was  a  grim  mirage,  the  future  a  blind  dilem- 
ma— ^nay,  there  was  no  future  save  as  it  gloomed,  a  preg- 
nant shadow  of  this  present  so  wrought  of  doubt  and  joy. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

BY  OEDER  OF  THE  POPE 

bearing  Casa  Guiccioli,  Gordon  saw  a,  crowd  clus- 
tering a  few  paces  from  the  entrance.  Servants  were 
watching  from  the  balcony. 

A  couple  of  soldiers  cocked  their  guns  and  would  have 
hindered  him,  but  he  put  them  aside.  On  the  pavement 
lay  a  man  in  uniform,  shot  through  the  breast.  Over 
him  bent  a  beardless  adjutant  feeling  for  a  pulse,  and  a 
priest  muttering  a  horrified  prayer. 

He  asked  a  hurried  question  or  two  amid  the  con- 
fusion and  dismay :  The  prostrate  man  was  the  military 
commandant  of  Ravenna.  No  one  knew  whence  the 
shot  had  come  a  full  twenty  minutes  before.  Now  his 
guard  stood,  with  characteristic  Italian  helplessness,  do- 
ing nothing,  waiting  orders  from  they  knew  not  whom 
or  where. 

Gordon  spoke  authoritatively  to  the  subaltern,  bade 
one  of  the  soldiers  go  for  the  police,  despatched  another 
with  the  news  to  the  cardinal  and  directed  two  of  the 
crowd  to  lift  the  injured  man  and  carry  him  to  his  own 
quarters  in  the  casa.  This  done  he  sent  Fletcher  for  the 
surgeon  who  had  attended  his  own  wound  in  that  same 

(316) 


THE    CASTAWAY^  317 

chamber,  and  stationed  the  remaining  soldiers  at  th« 
lower  doors.  When  the  room  was  cleared  he  gave  his 
attention  to  the  unconscious  commandant. 

He  stood  a  moment  looking  fixedly  at  the  bed.  It  was 
this  man's  spies  who  had  dogged  him  during  the  past 
month,  persecuted  his  servants  and  attempted  to  raise 
the  Eavennese  against  his  very  presence  in  the  city.  The 
government  he  served  would  have  rejoiced  to  see  him, 
Gordon,  lying  stretched  there  in  the  other's  place ;  would 
have  given  but  lukewarm  pursuit  to  the  assassin.  Yet 
the  man  before  him  lay  helpless  enough  now.  Presently 
the  casa  would  be  full  of  soldiers,  dragoons,  priests  and 
all  the  human  paraphernalia  of  autocratic  authority. 
Who  had  fired  the  shot?  And  by  what  strange  chance, 
almost  at  his  own  threshold  ? 

Se  crossed  the  floor,  unlocked  a  drawer  and  took  out 
Count  Gamba's  packet  with  satisfaction.  His  foot 
struck  something  on  the  floor. 

He  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  small  leather  letter-case — 
evidently  fallen  from  the  pocket  of  the  wounded  com- 
mandant. He  took  a  step  toward  the  bed,  intending  to 
replace  it,  and  saw  Tita  at  the  door. 

The  latter  wore  no  coat.  He  was  sweaty  and  covered 
with  dust.    He  beckoned  Gordon  into  the  next  room. 

"Excellence,"  he  asked  huskily;  "will  you  not  open 
that  portafoglif 

"Why?" 

"Perhaps  to  know  what  he  knew.'' 

"Why  should  I  wish  to  know  ?" 

"Because  he  was  on  his  way  here — to  this  casa,  Ex- 
cellence." 

Gordon  saw  that  he  was  trembling,  it  seemed  witK 


318  THE   CASTAWAY 

both  fatigue  and  repressed  excitement.  ^^Tell  me  what 
you  know/'  he  said. 

Tita  spoke  rapidly,  his  words  tumbling  one  against 
another : 

'^I  heard  Paolo  send  your  valet  after  you  to-day,  Ex- 
cellence, when  no  one  had  come  from  the  villa.  It  did 
not  seem  right.  I  watched  from  the  garden.  I  could 
see  someone  in  this  room — it  was  locked  when  you 
went.    I  climbed  a  tree.    The  master  and  one  other — " 

*'Trevanion  I" 

" — I  could  not  tell.  They  were  carrying  in  boxes. 
When  they  left  the  casa,  I  got  through  the  window  and 
broke  them  open.  They  held  bullets  and  cans  of  pow- 
der.'' 

Gordon  swept  a  swift  glance  around  the  room.  He 
was  beginning  to  understand.  Ammunition,  presumably 
for  the  use  of  the  insurrectionists,  here  in  his  rooms — 
evidence  of  complicity  with  the  Carbonari.  A  military 
search  at  the  proper  moment — expulsion  from  Italy! 
He  distinguished  the  outlines  clearly. 

'TTes,  yes,"  he  said;  "go  on." 

"I  know  the  police  have  watched  you.  I  guessed  what 
it  meant.  I  wanted  to  get  the  boxes  away,  but  I  could 
not — the  servants  would  have  seen  me.  I  knew  the  sol- 
diers would  come  soon.    I  climbed  to  the  casa  roof." 

The  narrator  had  paused.  The  paper  shook  in  Gor- 
don's hand.    "No  more,  Tita!" 

"It  was  the  only  way.  Excellence!"  said  Tita,  his 
features  working.  "I  swore  on  the  Virgin  to  guard  you, 
whatever  came.  The  servants  ran  to  the  balconies 
when — ^it  happened.    The  way  was  clear.    I  carried  the 


!rHE   CASTAWAY  319 

boxes  down  to  the  garden.  There  is  a  covered  well. 
They  are  there — where  no  one  would  look.'' 

Gordon  was  staring  at  the  letter-case,  his  mind  strug- 
gling between  revolt  at  the  act  itself  and  a  sense  of  its 
motive.  So  it  was  for  him  the  shot  had  been  fired! 
What  a  ghastly  levity  that  the  wounded  man  should 
now  be  lying  here !  He  shuddered.  Tita's  voice  spoke 
again: 

"Now,  Excellence,  will  you  read  what  may  be  in  that 
portafogli  ?" 

Gordon  strode  to  the  window  and  opened  the  case. 
It  contained  a  single  official  letter.  He  unfolded  and 
scanned  it  swiftly: 

"Rome,  Direction-General  of  Police. 
(Most  private.) 
"Your  Excellency: 

**The  Governor  of  Rome,  in  his  capacity  of  Director- 
CJeneral,  forwards  the  following: 

"  'With  the  approval  of  Count  Guiccioli,  her  husband, 
from  whom  by  papal  decree  she  has  been  separated,  it  is 
deemed  advisable  since  the  death  of  her  father  to  modify 
that  decree,  and  to  grant  to  the  Contessa  Guiccioli  hence- 
forth a  retreat  in  the  protection  of  Holy  Church.  You  are 
directed  herewith  to  arrange  for  her  immediate  convey- 
ance to  the  Convent  of  Saint  Ursula  in  His  Holiness'  es- 
tates below  Rome. 

"  'CoNSALVi,  Cardinal, 
"  'Secretary  of  State  to  Pius  VII.* 
"Under  direction  of  the  Cardinal  of  Ravenna,  you  will 
act  upon  this  without  delay. 

"To  the  Sub-direction  of  Police  at  Ravenna." 

Gordon  raised  his  eyes  with  a  start.  Teresa — ^to  be 
shut  from  the  face  of  the  sun,  from  flowers,  from  glad- 


320  THE    CASTAWAY 

ness,  for  years,  at  least  during  the  lifetime  of  her  hus- 
band, perhaps  forever  ?  From  him  f  Was  this  the  fate 
he,  cursed  as  he  was,  must  bring  upon  her? 

He  felt  his  breath  stop.  What  could  he  do?  Take 
her  away?  How  and  where?  "Her  immediate  con- 
veyance"— "act  without  delay."  Those  were  no  am- 
biguous words;  they  meant  more  than  soon.  If  it 
should  be  to-day!  If  authority  was  on  its  way  to  her, 
even  now,  while  he  dallied  here ! 

Tita  saw  the  deathly  pallor  that  overspread  his  face 
like  a  white  wave.    "What  is  it,  Excellence  ?"  he  cried. 

Gordon  made  no  reply.  He  dashed  the  portafogli 
on  the  floor  and  rushed  from  the  room. 

His  horse  stood  at  the  casa  entrance.  He  pushed 
past  the  stolid  sentinel,  threw  himself  into  the  saddle, 
and  lashed  the  animal  to  an  anguish  of  speed  toward  the 
villa. 


CHAPTEE  XLV 

THE   SUMMONS 

Seated  amid  the  dahlias,  Teresa,  from  speculation  as 
to  what  had  recalled  Gordon  to  the  casa,  drifted  into  a 
long  day-dream  from  which  a  sudden  sound  awoke  her. 

Several  troopers  passed  along  the  roadway;  following 
were  two  closed  carriages.  While  she  listened  the  wheels 
seemed  to  stop. 

"It  is  the  Mother  Superior  come  from  Bagnacavallo/* 
she  thought.  As  she  sprang  up,  she  heard  old  Elise  call- 
ing. Slipping  the  "Eomeo  and  Juliet^'  into  her  pocket, 
she  went  hastily  into  the  house. 

Five  minutes  later  she  stood  dumb  and  white  before 
three  persons  in  the  villa  parlor.  Two  were  nuns  wear- 
ing the  dress  of  the  order  of  St.  Ursula.  The  other  she 
had  recognized — ^he  had  visited  her  father  in  his  illness 
— as  chaplain  to  the  Cardinal  of  Ravenna.  A  letter  bear- 
ing the  papal  arms,  dropped  from  her  hand,  lay  at  her 
feet.  What  it  contained  but  one  other  in  Ravenna  be- 
sides the  cardinal  knew :  that  was  the  military  command- 
ant who  had  furnished  the  ecclesiastic  his  escort  of  troop- 
ers disposed  outside  the  villa,  and  who  at  that  moment 
was  walking  on  another  errand,  straight  toward  a  mus- 
ket, filed  half  down,  waiting  on  a  casa  roof. 

(32iy 


322  THE   CASTAWAY 

^'We  must  start  without  delay,  Contessa.'^  The  cier* 
icaFs  voice  fell  half -compassionately.  ''The  villa  and  its 
servants  remain  at  present  under  the  vice-legate's 
care.  By  direction,  nothing  may  be  taken  with  you  save 
suitable  apparel  for  the  journey.  We  go  only  as  far  as 
Forli  to-night.'' 

Teresa  scarcely  Heard.  Haste — ^when  such  a  little  time 
before  she  had  been  so  happy !  Haste — ^to  bid  farewell 
now  to  the  world  that  held  him  ?  In  her  father's  death 
she  had  met  the  surpassing  but  natural  misfortune  of 
bereavement.  This  new  blow  brought  a  terror  without 
presage  or  precedent,  that  seemed  to  grip  her  every  sense. 
The  convent  of  Saint  Ursula !  Not  a  home  such  as  she 
had  known  at  Bagnacavallo,  a  free  abode  of  benignant 
phantom-footed  monitors,  but  a  forced  retreat,  a  prison, 
secret  and  impregnable. 

What  could  she  do  ?  What  could  she  do  ?  The  ques* 
tion  pealed  in  her  brain  as  she  answered  dully,  conscious 
all  the  time  of  a  stinging  sense  of  detail:  the  chaplain 
facing  her;  the  silent  religieuses  beside  him;  the 
wrinkled  face  of  Elise  peering  curiously  from  the  hall ; 
out  of  doors  goldening  sunlight,  men's  voices  conversing 
and  the  stamping  of  horses'  hoofs.  Not  even  to  see  him 
— ^to  tell  him ! 

As  she  climbed  the  stair  mechanically,  a  kind  of  dazed 
sickness  in  her  limbs,  she  pictured  Gordon's  returning 
at  the  hour's  end  to  find  her  gone  forever.  She  sat  down, 
her  hands  clenched,  the  nails  striking  purple  crescents 
in  the  palms,  striving  desperately  to  think.  If  she 
could  escape ! 

She  ran  to  the  window — ^a  trooper  stood  smoking  a 


THE    CASTAWAY  323 

short  pipe  al  tlie  rear  of  the  villa.  She  went  to  the  stair- 
case and  called :  "Elise  V 

A  nun  ascended  the  stair.  "The  servants  are  receiv- 
ing His  Eminence's  instructions/'  she  explained.  "Pray 
let  me  help  you." 

Teresa  began  to  tremble.  She  thanked  her  with  an 
effort  and  automatically  set  about  selecting  a  few  arti- 
cles of  clothing.  The  apathy  of  hopelessness  was  upon 
her. 

The  chaplain  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  when  they 
descended.  Seeing  him  waiting,  the  sharper  pain  re- 
swept  her.  Only  to  bridge  that  time — ^to  see  Gordon 
again,  if  but  for  an  instant,  before  she  went.  She 
stopped,  searching  his  face. 

"I  should  like  a  little  while  alone  before  I  go.  There 
is  time  for  that,  is  there  not  ?" 

His  grave  face  lighted,  the  authoritative  merged  in- 
stantly in  the  fatherly  solicitude  of  the  shepherd  of 
souls.  He  thought  she  longed  for  the  supreme  consola- 
tion of  prayer. 

*^A  half -hour  if  you  wish  it,  my  daughter.  The  chapel 
— shall  it  not  be  ?"  He  led  the  way.  Elise  sat  weeping 
in  a  chair;  as  they  passed  she  snatched  Teresa's  hand 
and  kissed  it  silently. 

From  the  side  steps  a  tunnelled  yew  walk  curved  to 
a  door  in  one  of  the  villa's  narrow  wings.  This  wing, 
which  had  no  connection  with  the  rest  of  the  house,  had 
been  added  by  Count  Gamba  as  a  chapel  for  Teresa's 
mother.  It  was  scrupulously  kept,  and  during  all  the 
years  since  her  death  bowls  of  fresh  flowers  had  scented 
it  daily  and  two  candles  had  been  kept  burning  before 
the  crucifix  over  its  cushioned  altar.    The  attic  above 


'324;  THE    CASTAWAY 

Count  Gamba  had  used  as  a  laboratory  for  bis  unending 
chemical  experiments.  It  was  there  the  message  had 
found  him  which  had  brought  so  cruel  a  result. 

The  churchman  paused  at  the  chapel  door,  and  Teresa 
entered  alone.    He  closed  it  behind  her. 


CHAPTEE  XLVI 

THE   POTION" 

The  declining  sun  shone  dimly  through  the  painted 
windows.  The  chapel  was  in  half-dark.  Teresa  went 
slowly  to  where  the  two  candles  winked  yellowly.  She 
had  often  knelt  there,  but  she  brought  now  no  thought 
of  prayer.  Might  Gordon  come  in  time?  Would  his 
errand  at  the  casa  delay  him  ?  Could  fate  will  that  she 
should  miss  him  by  such  a  narrow  margin?  She 
crouched  suddenly  down  on  the  altar  cushions,  dry,  tear- 
less sobs  tearing  at  her  throat. 

She  felt  the  book  in  her  pocket  and  drew  it  out. 

Only  that  morning  she  had  found  the  letter  written  in 
it— only  an  hour  ago  their  hands  had  touched  together 
on  its  cover.  How  truly  now  Juliet's  plight  seemed  like 
her  own!  But  she^  alas!  had  no  friendly  monk  nor 
magic  elixir.  There  were  no  such  potions  nowadays. 
What  was  it  Gordon  had  said  ?  Mandragora — a  drachm 
of  mandragora  ?    If  she  only  had  some  now ! 

She  caught  her  breath. 

In  another  minute  she  was  stumbling  up  the  narrow 
curling  stair  to  the  loft  above. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  stood  in  the  center  of  the  labora- 
tory, lined  with  its  shelves  of  crooked-necked  retorts  and 

(325) 


326  THE   CASTAWAY 

bottles,  her  search  ended,  the  blood  shrinking  from  her 
heart,  her  hand  clutching  a  small  phial. 

Gasping,  she  seized  a  slender  graduated  glass  and  hur- 
ried down.  She  ran  to  the  chapel  door  and  fastened  it, 
hearing  while  she  slid  the  bolt,  the  steps  of  the  cleric 
pacing  up  and  down  without. 

As  she  stood  again  at  the  altar,  the  phial  in  her  hand, 
a  bleak  fear  crossed  her  soul.  What  if  it  had  never  been 
anything  but  a  story?  Perhaps  Juliet  had  never 
awakened  really,  but  had  died  when  she  drank  the  po- 
tion !  Suppose  it  were  a  poison,  from  which  there  was 
no  awaking! 

She  shivered  as  if  with  cold.  Better  even  that  than 
life — ^without  Tiim! 

Perhaps,  too,  Gordon  had  jested  or  had  been  mistaken. 
It  might  have  been  some  other  drug — some  other  quan- 
tity. 

Another  dread  leaped  upon  her  out  of  the  shadow. 
S^uppose  it  were  the  right  drug — ^that  its  effect  would  be 
as  he  had  said.  What,  then?  In  her  agony  she  had 
thought  only  of  escape  from  the  hour's  dilemma.  There 
would  be  an  afterward.  And  who  would  know  she  only 
slept?  Sh«  dared  not  trust  to  Elise — her  fright  would 
betray  her.  She  dared  not  leave  a  writing  lest  other  eyes 
than  Gordon's  should  see  and  understand.  Suppose  she 
did  it,  and  it  succeeded,  and  he  came  afterward.  He 
would  deem  her  dead  in  truth, — ^that  was  what  Romeo 
had  thought ! — a  victim  of  her  own  despair.  They  would 
bear  her  to  the  Gamba  vault  cold  and  coffined,  to  wake 
beside  her  father,  without  Juliet's  hope  of  rescue.  Her 
brain  rocked  with  hysterical  terror.  If  Gordon  only 
knew,  she  would  dare  all — dare  that  worst.     But  how 


THE   CASTAWAY  327 

could  she  let  him  know  ?  Even  if  he  were  here  now  she 
would  have  neither  time  nor  opportunity.  Her  half- 
hour  of  grace  was  almost  up. 

Yet — if  he  saw  her  lying  there,  apparently  lifeless, 
and  beside  her  that  book  and  phial — ^would  he  remember 
what  he  had  said?  Would  he  guess?  Oh  God,  would 
he? 

A  warning  knock  sounded  at  the  chapel  door. 

^'Blessed  Virgin,  help  me  V  whispered  Teresa,  poured 
the  drachm  and  drank  it. 

Then  with  a  sob  she  stretched  herself  on  the  altar 
cushions  and  laid  the  "Romeo  and  Juliet'^  open  on  her 
breast. 

When  finally — ^his  wonder  and  indignation  having 
given  place  to  apprehension — the  chaplain  employed  a 
dragoon's  stout  shoulder  to  force  the  chapel  door,  he  dis- 
tinguished at  first  only  emptiness. 

He  approached  the  altar  to  start  back  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  dismay  at  what  he  saw  stretched  in  the 
candle-light. 

He  laid  a  faltering  hand  on  Teresa's ;  it  was  already 
chilled.  He  raised  her  eyelid — ^the  pupil  was  expanded 
to  the  iris'  edge.  He  felt  her  pulse,  her  heart.  Both 
were  still.  A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  his  lips,  as  he 
saw  a  phial  lying  uncorked  beside  her.  He  picked  it  up, 
noting  the  far-faint  halitus  of  the  deadly  elixir. 

His  cry  brought  Elise,  with  the  nuns  behind  her.  The 
old  woman  pushed  past  the  peering  trooper  and  rushed 
to  throw  herself  beside  the  altar  with  a  wail  of  lameata- 
tioa. 

The  chaplain  lifted  her  and  drew  her  away. 


328  THE   CASTAWAY 

"Go  back  to  the  house/^  he  bade  her  sternly ;  'lei  no 
servant  enter  here  till  word  comes  from  Casa  Guiccioli/* 
He  waved  the  black-gowned  figures  back  to  the  thresh- 
old.   "She  is  self -slain  V  he  said. 

In  the  confusion  none  of  them  had  seen  a  man  enter 
the  garden  from  the  side,  who,  hearing  the  first  alarm, 
had  swiftly  approached  the  chapel.  No  one  had  seen 
him  enter  the  open  door  behind  them. 

The  churchman,  with  that  solemn  pronouncement 
on  his  lips,  stopped  short  at  Gordon's  white,  awe-frosted 
face.  There  was  not  true  sight  but  rather  a  woeful  con- 
gealed vision  in  those  eyes  turned  upon  the  altar;  they 
seemed  those  of  a  soul  in  whom  the  abrupt  certainty  of 
perdition  has  sheathed  itself  unawares. 

The  chaplain  drew  back.  He  recognized  the  man  who 
had  come  so  suddenly  to  meet  that  scene.  A  dark  shadow 
crossed  his  face.  Then  muttering  a  prayer,  he  followed 
the  nuns  to  the  carriages  to  bear  back  the  melancholy 
news  to  Kavenna. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

THE   COMPLICITY  OF   THE  GODS 

"Self-slain  !^^  The  words  of  the  priest,  as  Gordon 
stood  there,  seemed  to  reecho  about  him  with  infinite 
variations  of  agony.  He  had  ridden  vacant  of  purpose, 
destitute  of  plan — ^thrilling  only  to  reach  her.  Desper- 
ate, lawless  thoughts  had  rung  through  his  mind  as  he 
galloped.  Entering  the  garden  he  had  seen  the  carriages 
and  heard  the  chaplain's  cry  at  the  same  moment.  Then, 
with  the  awful  instantaneousness  of  an  electric  bolt,  the 
blow  had  fallen.  It  was  the  last  finality — ^the  closure 
of  the  ultimate  gateway  of  hope — ^the  utter  assurance  of 
the  unescapable  doom  in  which  all  ends  save  the  worm 
that  dies  not  and  the  fire  that  is  not  quenched. 

He  drew  closer  to  the  altar,  his  step  dragging  as  he 
[walked — ^his  infirmity  grown  all  at  once  painfully  ap- 
I parent — and  gazed  at  the  mute  face  on  the  cushions, 
jThe  priest  and  his  escort  were  forgotten.  He  knew 
[nothing  save  that  dreadful  assertion  that  had  sent  the 
Inuns  hastily  from  the  door,  telMng  their  beads,  and  had 
jforbidden  even  the  servant  to  enter. 

Self -slain?  l^o,  but  slain  by  George  Gordon — the  ac- 
cursed bearer  of  all  maranafha,  damned  to  the  last  jot 
and  tittle.  He  had  done  her  to  death  as  surely  as  if  his 
own  hand  had  held  the  phial  lying  there  to  her  lips.    It 

(329) 


330  THE   CASTAWAY 

was  because  he  had  stayed  in  Eavenna  that  she  lay  here 
dead  before  the  crucifix — ^the  symbol  that  she  had  sought 
at  San  Lazzarro,  that  Padre  Somalian  had  prayed  to ! 

Staring  across  hueless  wastes  of  mental  torture  to  a 
blank  horizon,  something  the  friar  had  said  came  to 
him :  "Every  man  bears  a  cross  of  despair  to  his  Cal- 
vary." What  a  vacuous  futility!  Infinity,  systems, 
worlds,  man,  brain.  Was  this  the  best  the  aeon-long  evo- 
lution could  offer  ?  This  bloodless  image  nailed  upon  a 
tree?  What  had  it  availed  her? 

He  suddenly  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her.  Dead? 
Teresa  dead  ?  Why,  a  few  months  before,  at  the  monas- 
tery, he  had  regarded  death  for  himself  with  calmness, 
almost  with  satisfaction.  But  not  for  her — ^never  for 
her.  Was  she  dead,  and  he  to  live  on — ^never  to  see  her^ 
'to  hear  her  speak,  not  even  to  know  that  she  was  some- 
where in  the  world  ? 

He  saw  for  the  first  time  the  little  book  lying  open  on 
her  breast  in  the  candle-light.  He  took  it  mechanically 
and  turned  its  leaves.  As  mechanically  his  eye  read,  not 
sensible  of  what  it  translated,  but  as  surcharged  agony 
unconsciously  seeks  relief  in  the  doing  of  simple,  habit- 
ual things : 

"When  presently  through  all  thy  veins  shall  run 
A  cold  and  drowsy  humor;  for  no  pulse  j 

Shall  keep  his  native  progress,  but  surcease: 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  livest; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  paly  ashes;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall, 
Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life! 
And  in  this  borrowed  likeness  of  shrunk  death 
Thou  Shalt  continue  two  and  forty  hours. 
And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep." 


THE    CASTAWAY^  331 

The  last  words  of  the  monk  Gordon  repeated  aloud: 
*'And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep/^ 

A  sudden  tingling  sensation  leaped  through  every 
nerve.  He  snatched  at  the  phial  and  bent  to  its  label— 
'^andragora.'^ 

"With  an  inarticulate  cry  he  sprang  up,  leaped  to 
the  nearest  window  and  smashed  it  frantically  with 
his  fist.  The  splintering  glass  cut  his  hand,  but  he  did 
not  feel  it.  He  caught  a  fragment  as  it  fell,  and  in  a 
second  was  holding  it  close  over  Teresa's  parted  lips. 

He  waited  a  time  that  seemed  a  dragging  eternity, 
then  lifted  it  to  the  candle-light  and  looked  with  fearful 
earnestness.  The  faintest  tarnish,  light  as  gossamer 
film,  clouded  it. 

The  crystal  clashed  upon  the  floor.  He  seized  and 
emptied  one  of  the  rose  bowls  and  rushed  out  through 
the  darkening  flower-paths  to  the  fountain  in  the  gar- 
den. Goldfish  flirted  and  glistened  in  panic  as  he  filled 
the  bowl  with  the  icy  water.  He  hurried  back,  dipped 
Teresa's  stirless  hands  into  its  coldness  and  dashed  it 
over  her  face,  drenching  her  white  neck  and  the  dull 
gold  hair  meshed  on  the  velvet. 

Three  separate  times  he  did  this.  Then,  breathless, 
he  seized  her  arms  and  began  to  move  them  as  one  re- 
suscitates a  half-drowned  person,  trying  to  rouse  the 
lungs  to  action  to  throw  off  the  lethal  torpor  of  the  bel- 
ladonna-like opiate. 

He  worked  for  many  minutes,  the  moisture  running 
from  his  forehead,  his  breath  coming  in  gasps.  Labor- 
ing, he  thought  of  the  dire  risk  she  had  run,  trusting  all 
to  his  promise  to  return  and  to  his  divination.    He  re- 


532  THE    CASTAWAY 

membered  he  had  said  a  drachm.  To  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  might  she  have  taken  more  ? 

He  kept  watching  her  features — ^the  rigor  seemed  to  be 
loosening,  the  marble  rigidity  softening  its  outlines.  But 
heart  and  pulse  were  still.  In  despair  he  laid  his  warm 
lips  close  upon  her  cold  ones  and  filled  her  lungs  with 
a  great  expiration,  again  and  again. 

He  lifted  himself,  trembling  now  with  hope.  The 
lungs,  responding  to  that  forced  effort,  had  begun  to  re- 
new their  function.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell — slowly, 
but  still  it  was  life.  He  dried  her  face  and  chafed  her 
hands  between  his  own.  She  commenced  to  breathe 
more  naturally  and  rhythmically;  at  length  she  sighed 
and  stirred  on  the  cushions. 

A  rush  of  tears  blinded  Gordon's  eyes — ^the  first  he 
had  shed  since  the  night  in  London  when  he  had  bent 
above  the  little  empty  snow-silent  bed  that  had  held 
Ada.  He  dashed  them  away,  seeing  that  Teresa's  eyes 
were  open. 

Her  hand,  wavering,  touched  his  wet  cheek. 

"My  love !"  he  said.    "My  love !" 

The  first  fact  that  came  to  her  out  of  the  void  was 
that  of  his  tears.    A  troubled  look  crossed  her  brow. 

"All  is  well.    Do  you  remember  ?" 

Her  eyes,  roaming  at  first  bewildered,  saw  the  dark 
chapel,  the  flaring,  garish  candles,  caught  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  still  drawn  and  haggard,  and  white  with 
strain.  All  came  back  upon  her  in  a  surge.  She  half 
raised  herself,  his  arm  supporting  her.  They  two  there 
-alone — ^the  priest  gone — the  dusk  fallen  to  night.  She 
liad  succeeded !    Gordon  had  come — -his  arms  held  her ! 

In  the  joyful  revulsion,  she  turned  her  face  to  him 


THE   CASTAWAY  333 

and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  feeling  herself 
caught  up  in  his  embrace,  every  fiber  shuddering  with 
the  terror  passed,  weeping  with  weak  delight,  clinging 
to  him  as  to  her  only  refuge,  still  dizzy  and  faint,  but 
with  safe  assurance  and  peace. 

Looking  down  at  her  where  she  rested,  her  face  buried 
on  his  breast,  her  whole  form  shaken  with  feeling,  mur- 
muring broken  words,  slowly  calling  back  her  strength, 
Gordon  felt  doubt  and  indecision  drop  from  his  mind. 
The  convent  was  not  for  her — ^not  by  all  she  had  suf- 
fered that  day !  Only  one  thing  else  remained :  to  take 
her  away  forever,  beyond  the  papal  frontier — ^with  him! 
Fate  and  the  world  had  given  her  to  him  now  by  the  re- 
sistless logic  of  circumstance. 

He  reckoned  swiftly : 

The  news  by  this  time  had  reached  the  casa  in  Ea- 
venna.  Another  half -hour  at  most  and  choice  would  be 
taken  from  their  hands.  They  must  lose  no  time.  Yet 
whither?  Where  could  he  go,  that  hatred  would  not 
pursue?  To  what  Ultima  Thule  could  he  fly,  that  the 
poison  barb  would  not  follow  to  wound  her  happiness  ? 
Where  to  live?  Never  in  England!  In  the  East, — ^in 
Greece,  perhaps,  the  land  of  his  youthful  dreams?  It 
was  a  barbarian  pashawlik,  under  the  foot  of  Ottoman 
greed;  neither  a  fit  nor  secure  habitation.  In  Italy, 
where  her  soul  must  always  be  ?  Tuscany — Pisa,  where 
Shelley  lived — was  not  far  distant.  They  might  reacK 
its  borders  in  safety.  There  they  would  be  beyond  the 
rule  of  Eomagna,  out  of  the  states  of  the  Church. 

"Dearest,^'  asked  Gordon,  "are  you  strong  enough  to 
rideP^ 

She  stirred  instantly  in  his  arms  and  stood  up,  though 


334  THE   CASTAWAY, 

unsteadily.  'TTes,  yes,  some  one  will  come.  We  must  go 
quickly/' 

^'I  will  saddle  and  fetch  a  horse  for  yon  to  the  chapel 
door/' 

She  was  feeling  the  sharp  edge  of  fear  again.  "1 
shall  be  quite  strong  presently,"  she  assured  him.  "Let 
us  wait  no  longer.'' 

He  went  noiselessly  to  the  stables.  He  had  dreaded 
meeting  some  one,  but  old  Elise,  beside  herself  with 
grief,  had  run  to  watch  for  those  who  should  come  from 
Ravenna,  and  the  rest  of  the  servants,  dazed  by  the  ca- 
lamity, were  huddled  in  the  kitchen.  Leading  the  horse, 
Gordon  returned  speedily. 

He  put  his  arms  about  Teresa  in  the  chapel  doorway 
for  an  instant  and  held  her  close.  He  was  feeling  a  call 
he  had  never  felt  before,  the  call  that  nature  and 
civilization  have  planted  in  man  deep  as  the  desire  for 
offspring,  the  song  of  the  silver-singing  goddess,  whose 
marble  image,  on  the  night  he  had  made  that  fatal 
trothing  with  Annabel,  had  been  blackened  by  his 
thrown  ink-well — Vesta,  the  personification  of  the 
hearthstone,  of  home. 

Teresa  suddenly  meant  that  to  him.  Home!  Not 
such  a  one  as  he  had  known  at  Newstead  Abbey,  with 
Hobhouse  and  Sheridan  and  Moore.  Not  a  gray  moated 
pile  wound  with  the  tragic  fates  of  his  own  blood — a 
house  of  mirth,  but  not  of  happiness !  Not  like  the  one 
in  Piccadilly  Terrace,  where  he  had  lived  with  Annabel 
that  one  year  of  fever  and  heart-sickness  and  fading 
ideals !  No,  but  a  home  that  should  be  no  part  of  his 
past ;  a  nook  enisled,  where  spying  eyes  might  not  enter. 


THE   CASTAWAY]  335 

where  he  should  redeem  those  barren  pledges  he  had  once 
made  to  life,  in  the  coin  of  real  love. 

"Teresa/'  he  said,  "from  the  journey  we  begin  this 
hour  there  can  be  no  return.  It  is  out  of  the  world 
you  have  lived  in  and  known !  If  there  were  any  other 
way  for  you — save  that  one — ^^ 

"My  life  V  she  whispered. 

The  soft-voiced  passion  of  her  tenderness  thrilled  him. 
"You  go  to  exile/'  he  went  on,  "to  an  alien  place — ^* 

"There  is  no  exile,  except  from  you,  nor  alien  place 
where  you  are !  The  world  that  disowns  you  may  cast 
me  out — ah,  I  shall  be  glad !" 

He  laughed  a  low  laugh  of  utter  content.  Lightly  as 
if  she  had  been  a  child,  he  lifted  her  into  the  saddle. 
Supporting  her  at  first,  he  led  the  horse  over  the  turf 
and  into  the  driveway  where  his  own  waited. 

Then  mounting,  his  hand  holding  her  bridle,  iJiey 
rode  into  the  velvety  dark. 

Old  Elise,  tearfully  watching  the  Eavenna  road,  heard 
horses  coming  from  the  villa  grounds.  From  the  selvedge 
of  the  hedge,  she  saw  the  faces  of  Teresa  and  Gordon, 
pallid  in  the  starlight. 

The  old  woman's  breath  failed  her.  All  the  servants' 
tales  of  the  Englishman,  whom  she  had  seen  at  the  casa, 
recurred  to  her  superstitious  imagination.  He  was  a 
fiend,  carrying  off  the  dead  body  of  her  mistress ! 

She  crouched  against  the  ground,  palsied  with  fright, 
till  the  muffled  hoof-beats  died  away.  Then  she  rose 
and  ran,  stumbling  with  fear,  to  the  house. 

As  Gfordon  and  Teresa  rode  through  the  azure  gloom 
of  the  Italian  night,  a  girlish  moon  was  tilting  over 
the  distant  purple  of  the  mountains,  beyond  whose 


'33Q  THE   CASTAWAY 

many-folded  fastnesses  lay  Tuscany  and  Pisa.  Her 
weakness  had  passed  and  she  kept  her  saddle  more  cer- 
tainly. The  darkness  was  friendly ;  before  the  sun  rose 
they  would  be  beyond  pursuit. 

As  the  villa  slipped  behind  them  and  the  odorous  for- 
est shut  them  round,  Gordon  rode  closer  and  clasped  her 
in  his  arms  with  a  rush  of  joy,  straining  her  tight  to 
him,  feeling  the  fervid  beating  of  her  heart,  his  own 
exulting  with  the  fierce,  primordial  flame  of  possession. 

*'Mine!'^  he  cried.  *^My  very  own  at  last — now  and 
always.'^ 


CHAPTEE  XLVIII 

THE  ALL   OF  LOVE 

Spring,  the  flush  wooer,  was  come  again.  The  prints 
of  gentian  showed  where  his  blue-sandalled  feet  had 
trod,  and  the  wild  plum  and  cherry  blooms  announced 
the  earth  his  bride.  In  the  tranquil  streets  of  Pisa, 
where  the  chains  of  red-liveried  convicts  toiled  not, 
young  grass  sprouted.  Beneath  a  sky  serenely,  beauti- 
fully blue,  the  yellow  Arno  bore  its  lazy  sails  under 
still  bridges  and  between  bright  houses,  green-shut- 
tered against  the  sun.  Eound  about  lay  new  corn-fields 
busy  with  scarlet-bodiced  peasants,  forests  and  hills 
sagy-green  with  olive,  and  further  off  the  clear  Carrara 
peaks  and  the  solemn  hoary  Apennines.  At  night  a 
breeze  fragrant  as  wood-smoke,  cooling  the  myrtle 
hedges  flecked  with  the  first  pale-green  meteors  of  the 
fireflies. 

The  few  English  residents  had  long  grown  used  to  the 
singular  figure  of  Shelley,  beardless  and  hatless,  habited 
like  a  boy  in  stinted  jacket  and  trousers — ^that  mild 
philosopher  at  war  with  the  theories  of  society ;  a  fresher 
divertissement  had  stirred  them  when  the  old  Lan- 
franchi  Palace,  built  by  Michael  Angelo,  on  the  Lung* 
Amo,  was  thrown  open  in  the  autumn  for  a  new  occu- 
(337) 


338  THE   CASTAWAyi 

pant — a  man  whose  striking  face  and  halting  step  made 
him  marked.    The  news  flew  among  the  gossips  in  a  day. 

George  Gordon  was  not  alone,  it  was  whispered  over 
indignant  tea-cups ;  with  him  was  a  Ravennese  contessa 
who  had  eloped  by  his  aid  out  of  Romagna.  Report 
averred  that  he  had  duelled  with  her  husband,  and  after 
spiriting  her  beyond  the  frontier,  had  returned  to  Ra- 
venna to  shoot  down  a  military  commandant  who  had 
attempted  to  interfere.  Luckily  for  him,  the  story  ran, 
the  official  had  recovered,  and  the  police,  relieved  to  be 
quit  of  him,  had  allowed  the  execrated  peer  to  depart 
unmolested  with  his  chattels.  For  a  time  the  Lan- 
franchi  neighborhood  was  avoided,  but  at  length,  curi- 
osity overcame  rigid  decorum;  femininity  forgot  its 
prudence  and  watched  with  open  eagerness. 

Its  reward,  however,  was  meager.  Except  for  Shelley 
and  his  young  wife,  Gordon  chose  seclusion  even  from 
the  Italian  circles,  where  title  was  an  open  sesame  and 
iminsular  laxity  not  unforgiven.  This  fact  became  un- 
mistakable when  a  billet  from  no  less  a  personage  than 
the  grand  duchess,  a  princess  of  the  House  of  Saxony, 
brought  from  the  Lanf ranchi  Palace  a  clear  declination. 
The  gossips  held  up  their  hands  and  subsided. 

For  the  primal  object  of  this  curiosity  the  winter, 
with  its  thaws  and  siroccos,  had  passed  swiftly.  In  the 
present,  so  full  of  sweet  surprise  and  unfolding,  even 
Teresa's  long  anxiety  because  of  her  brother's  non-ap- 
pearance and  the  boding  with  which  Gordon  watched 
for  a  sign  from  Trevanion,  or  from  Count  Guiccioli — 
who  he  knew  would  read  rightly  the  enigma  of  her  re- 
puted death  and  after  disappearance — ^had  softened 
finally  to  an  undisturbed  content. 


THE   CASTAWAY^  339 

The  full  measure  of  love  was  theirs.  The  outer  world, 
with  its  myriad  intonations,  had  dulled  away,  and  Pisa 
and  the  old  Lanfranchi  pile  constituted  an  inner  roseate 
haven  belonging  wholly  and  only  to  themselves.  A  clois- 
tered city,  its  old  grandeur  departed  and  seemingly  but 
half  inhabited;  the  river  drifting  by,  the  house  of  the 
Shelleys  on  the  opposite  bank ;  boats  and  horses ;  a  gar- 
den sweet  with  orange-trees  and  gushes  of  violets  along 
shady  walks ;  a  few  servants  marshalled  by  Fletcher  and 
Tita ;  a  study  and  books — and  Teresa.  It  was  the  home 
Gordon  had  dreamed,  of  when  his  arms  were  around  her 
at  the  villa  chapel,  but  more  satisfying,  more  complete. 

Sometimes,  in  this  Elysian  life  of  theirs,  as  he  felt  her 
head  against  his  knee  while  he  read  her  new  verses  of  his, 
— ^for  now  he  knew  oftener  the  old  melodic  pen-mood 
that  at  Venice  had  seemed  vanished  forever  and  that 
had  first  returned  in  the  hour  he  had  etched  those  lines 
on  the  fungus, — ^he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  tightening 
of  the  heart.  Could  it  last?  The  poison  of  his  fame 
had  gone  deep.  He  lived  at  peace  only  by  sufferance  of 
military  authority,  now  busy  avenging  its  late  alarm  by 
the  black-sentence  and  proscription.  At  any  moment 
it  might  recommence  in  Tuscany  the  persecution  with 
which  the  police  of  Eomagna  had  visited  him :  the  yelp- 
ing terriers  of  the  Continental  press,  a  upas-growth  of 
proces-verhal,  recrimination,  hateful  surveillance. 

Entering  his  restful  study  one  day  from  a  gallop  with 
Shelley,  Gordon  wondered  whether  this  retreat,  too— 
whether  each  retreat  he  might  find — ^would  in  the  end 
be  denied  him  and  he  condemned,  a  modem  son  of 
Shem,  to  pitch  his  tent  in  the  wilderness. 

For  himself  it  did  not  matter;  but  for  her?    She  was 


540  THE    CASTAWAY 

happy  now — only  with  him,  even  if  beyond  the  pale. 
But  could  she  always  remain  so?  Drop  by  drop,  as 
erosion  wears  the  quartz,  would  not  the  trickling  venom 
waste  her  soul  ?  Were  the  specters  of  that  further  past 
when  his  life  had  run,  like  a  burning  train,  through 
wanderings,  adventure  and  passion — ^the  ghosts  of  his 
own  weaknesses  and  wilful  tempers — not  laid?  Could 
they  stalk  into  this  halcyon  present  to  pluck  them  asun- 
der? 

The  ghosts  of  his  own  weaknesses!  Clarity  of  vision 
had  come  to  Gordon  in  these  months.  He  had  grown  to 
see  his  old  acts,  not  gaunt  and  perverse,  projections  of 
insistent  caprice,  but  luminous  with  new  self-solution. 
He  had  learned  himself:  what  he  had  never  known, 
either  in  his  London  life  of  success  and  failure,  or  in  its 
ignoble  Venetian  aftermath. 

Looking  out  toward  the  purpling  Apennines,  where 
the  sun  sank  to  his  crimson  covert,  he  felt  a  mute  aching 
wish :  an  intense  desire  that  the  world — ^not  his  contem- 
poraries, but  a  later  generation — should  be  able  to  look 
heneath  the  specious  shadow  of  opprobrium  that  covered 
him  and  see  the  truth. 

It  could  do  this  only  through  himself ;  through  pages 
he  should  write.  The  journals  he  had  kept  in  London, 
when  he  had  lived  centered  in  a  tremulous  web  of  sensi- 
tiveness and  wayward  idiosyncrasy,  had  recorded  his 
many-sided,  prismatic  personality  only  in  fragments, 
torn,  jagged  morsels  of  his  brain.  In  these  memoirs  he 
should  strive  to  paint  justly  the  old  situations  for  which 
he  had  been  judged.  And  these  pages  would  persist,  a 
cloud  of  witnesses,  when  he  was  beyond  earthly  summoxis 
and  verdict. 


.THE   CASTAWAY  341 

When  Teresa  entered  the  room  in  a  mist-white  gown, 
his  face  was  bent  close  to  the  paper,  the  candles  yet  im,« 
lighted.  Coming  close  to  him,  she  seated  herself  at  his 
feet.  He  bent  and  kissed  her  in  silence;  the  trooping 
visions  the  writing  had  recalled  made  his  kiss  linger- 
ingly  tender. 

She  pointed  out  of  the  window,  throu^  the  million- 
tinted  twilight. 

"Do  you  remember,  dear/^  she  asked,  her  voice  thrill- 
ing him  strangely,  "when  we  rode  to  those  mountains;, 
you  and  I,  from  Kavenna  T' 

'TTes,'^  he  replied,  smiling. 

She  had  turned  toward  him,  Ijneeling,  her  hands  ca- 
ressing his  clustering  brown-gray  curls. 

"You  have  never  regretted  that  ride  ?" 

"Kegrettedit?  Ah,  Teresa  P 

Her  face  was  looking  up  into  his,  a  wistful  question- 
ing in  it — almost  like  pain,  he  thought  wonderingly. 

"You  know  all  you  said  that  night,'^  she  went  on  hur- 
riedly ;  "what  I  was  to  you  ?    Is  it  as  true  now  ?' 

"It  is  more  true,"  he  answered.  "All  I  have  dreamed, 
all  I  have  written  here  in  Pisa — and  some  of  it  will  live, 
Teresa — ^has  had  its  source  in  you.  All  that  I  shall  ever 
write  will  spring  from  your  love!  That  began  to  be 
true  the  day  you  first  kissed  me." 

"That  was  when  you  found  me  on  the  convent  hill, 
when  we  read  from  the  Bible — ^the  day  I  first  knew  of 
AUegra." 

His  face  was  averted,  but  she  could  see  his  shoulders 
lift  and  fall  in  a  deep  silent  suspiration. 

^TTour  forgiveness  then  was  divine!"  he  said.    N"ot 


343  THE    CASTAWAY 

such  had  been  the  forgiveness  of  the  world !  He  clasped 
her  in  his  arms.    '*You  are  all  things  to  me !" 

^^Oh,"  she  cried  with  a  broken  breath,  "can  I  be  all  to 
you?" 

"Wife  and  home  and  happiness — all  V 

" — ^And  child  ?''    She  was  sobbing  now. 

He  started,  feeling  her  arms  straining  him,  seeing  her 
blinded  with  tears.  There  suddenly  seemed  a  woe- 
ful significance  in  what  she  had  said — ^in  her  question. 
He  felt  the  surging  of  some  unexpected  wave  of  dread 
which  broke  over  his  heart  and  washed  it  up  in  his 
throat. 

'TDearest !  Two  days  ago  I  heard  there  was  fever  in 
the  Bagnacavallo  valley.  I  sent  a  courier  at  once.  He 
has  just  returned.    Gordon — ^how  can  I  tell  you  ?" 

For  an  instant  she  was  frightened  at  his  stony  still- 
ness. In  the  dusk  a  mortal  grayness  spread  itself  over 
his  features.  He  pushed  back  his  chair  as  if  to  rise,  but 
could  not  for  her  arms.  It  was  not  AUegra's  illness — 
it  was  more,  it  was  the  worst !  His  arms  dropped  to  his 
sides.  A  shudder  ran  through  him. 

"I  understand,''  he  said  at  length.  "I  understand. 
Say  no  more.'' 

In  the  words  was  not  now  the  arrogant  and  passion- 
ate hostility  of  the  old  George  Gordon.  There  was  the 
deadly  quietness  of  grief,  but  also  something  more.  In 
that  moment  of  numbing  intelligence  it  was  borne  in  up- 
on him  with  searing  force,  that  death,  perhaps,  had  acted 
not  unkindly,  that  it  had  chosen  well.  What  perils 
might  that  young  life  have  held,  springing  from  those 
lawless  elements  compounded  in  her  nature:  reckless- 
ness, audacity,  the  roving  berserker  foot,  contempt  for 


THE   CASTAWAY)  343 

the  world's  opinion,  demoniac  passions  of  hatred  and  re- 
prisal? The  subtle,  unerring  divination  of  death  had 
taken  her  in  youthfulness,  a  heavened  soul,  from  the 
precincts  of  that  past  of  his  to  which  nothing  pure 
should  have  a  mortal  claim. 

So  he  thought,  as  feeling  Teresa's  arms  about  him, 
his  lips  repeated  more  slowly  and  with  a  touch  of  pain- 
ful resignation — the  first  he  had  felt  in  all  his  life : 

"I  understand!'' 

That  was  all.  He  was  looking  out  across  the  mistily- 
moving  Arno,  silent,  his  hand  on  her  bowed  head.  She 
lifted  it  after  a  time,  feeling  the  silence  acutely.  Her 
eyes,  swimming  with  changeless  love  and  pitying  tender- 
ness, called  his  own. 

At  the  wordless  appeal,  a  swift  rush  of  unshed  tears 
burned  his  eyelids.  "Death  has  done  his  work,"  he  said 
in  a  low  voice.  "Time,  perhaps,  may  do  his.  Let  us 
mention  her  no  more." 

Just  then  both  heard  a  noise  on  the  stairway — ^the 
choked  voice  of  Fletcher  and  a  vengeful  oath. 

Teresa  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 

Grordon  rose  and  threw  open  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

^^YOU  ARE  AIMING  AT  MY  HEART  I'* 

The  two  men  who  hurst  into  the  room  had  heen  in- 
timately yet  appositively  connected  with  Gordon's  past. 
One  had  tried  to  take  his  life  with  a  Malay  kriss;  the 
life  of  the  other  Gordon  had  once  saved.  They  were 
Trevanion  and  Count  Pietro  Gamba,  Teresa's  brother. 

The  former  had  come  many  times  stealthily  to  Pisa; 
for  the  master  of  Casa  Guiccioli,  cheated  of  his  dearest 
plan,  had  had  recourse  to  the  umbrage  of  Tuscan  official- 
ism. On  this  day,  as  it  happened,  Trevanion  had  been 
closeted  with  the  police  commandant  when  that  official 
had  been  called  upon  to  vise  the  passports  of  two  stran- 
gers: Prince  Mavrocordato,  a  tall  commanding  Greek, 
and  a  slighter,  blond-bearded  Italian,  at  whose  name  the 
listener  had  started — ^with  the  leap  of  a  plan  to  his 
brain.  Trevanion  had  followed  the  young  Count  Gamba 
to  his  hotel,  picked  acquaintance  and,  pretending  ig- 
norance of  the  other's  relationship,  had  soon  told  him 
sufficient  for  his  purpose:  that  the  young  and  lovely 
Contessa  Guiccioli,  lured  from  Ravenna  and  her  hufe'- 
band,  was  living  at  that  moment  in  Pisa — the  light-oi  • 
love  of  an  English  noble  whose  excesses  in  Venice  h?d 
given  him  the  appellation  of  the  milord  maligno. 

The  story  had  turned  the  brother's  blood  to  fire.  All  he 
(344) 


THE   CASTAWAY  345 

demanded  was  lo  be  shown  the  man.  Trevanion  led  him 
to  the  palace,  where  only  Fletcher  had  met  their  en- 
try, and  now  the  opening  of  a  door  had  brought  this 
winged  vengeance  and  its  object  face  to  face. 

The  sight  of  her  long-absent  brother — Trevanion  be- 
hind him — ^the  pistol  the  former  held  levelled  at  Gor- 
don's breast — froze  Teresa  with  sudden  comprehension. 
She  stood  stock-still,  unable  to  utter  a  word.  Trevanion 
sprang  forward,  his  finger  pointing. 

"There  he  is  V'  he  spat  savagely.  "There's  your  Eng- 
lishman !" 

Gordon  had  made  no  move.  Unarmed,  resistance 
would  have  been  futile  in  presence  of  the  poised  weapon. 
So  this  was  the  way  that  lurking  Nemesis  of  his  past  was 
to  return  to  him!  He  was  looking,  not  at  Trevanion, 
but  at  his  companion,  fixedly;  recalling,  with  an  odd 
sensation  of  the  unreal,  a  windy  lake  with  that  face  set- 
tling helplessly  in  the  ripples  as  he  swam  toward  it,  the 
water  roaring  in  his  ears.  The  outre  thought  flashed 
across  him  how  sane  and  just  the  homilists  of  England 
would  call  it  that  he  should  meet  his  end  in  such  inglo- 
rious fashion  at  the  hands  of  this  particular  man. 

'TTou  white-livered  fool!"  scoffed  Trevanion.  '^Why 
don't  you  shoot  ?" 

His  companion  had  paused,  eying  Gordon  in  astound- 
ed inquiry.     His  outstretched  arm  wavered. 

The  paralysis  of  Teresa's  fear  broke  at  the  instant. 
She  ran  to  him,  throwing  her  arms  around  him,  snatch- 
ing at  the  hand  that  held  the  pistol. 

"Pietro!  Pietro!"  she  screamed.  "Ah,  God  of  love! 
Hear  me,  first !    Hear  me !" 

He  thrust  her  to  her  knees,  and  again,  as  Trevanion 


34«  THE   castaway; 

sneered,  his  arm  stiffened.  But  the  negative  of  tha^ 
Grenevan  picture  was  before  his  eyes,  too — its  tones  re- 
versed. He  saw  himself  rising  from  the  beach  clasping 
the  hand  of  his  rescuer — heard  his  own  voice  say :  ^Ton 
have  given  me  my  life ;  I  shall  never  forget  it !" 

His  arm  fell. 

*^Signore/^  said  Gordon  steadily,  ^T  long  ago  released 
you  from  any  fancied  obligation." 

^Tietro  \"  Teresa's  voice  was  choked  with  agony.  ^1t 
is  not  him  alone  you  would  kill !  You  are  aiming  at  my 
heart,  too !    Pietro  I" 

Amazedly,  as  she  staggered  to  her  feet,  she  saw  her 
brother  hurl  the  pistol  through  the  open  window  and 
cover  his  face  with  his  hands. 

Trevanion  stared,  almost  believing  Gordon  an  adept 
in  some  superhuman  diablerie,  by  which  in  the  moment 
of  revenge  he  had  robbed  this  cat's-paw  of  courage.  Then 
laughing  shrilly  and  wildly,  he  turned  and  lurched  past 
Fletcher — ^leaning  against  the  wall,  dazed  fro^A  the  blow 
that  had  sent  him  reeling  from  the  landing — down  the 
stair. 

In  the  street  he  picked  up  the  fallen  pistol.  The 
touch  of  the  cool  steel  ran  up  his  arm.  He  turned 
back,  a  devilish  purpose  in  his  eye.  Why  not  glut  his 
hate  once  and  for  all?  He  had  tried  before,  and 
failed.  Why  not  now,  more  boldly?  Italian  justice 
would  make  only  a  pretense  of  pursuit.  Yet  British  law 
had  a  long  reach.  Its  ships  were  in  every  quarter  of  the 
globe.    And  Gordon,  above  all  else,  was  a  peer. 

A  sudden  memory  made  his  flesh  creep.  He  remem- 
bered  once  having  seen  a  murderer  executed  in  Eome. 
It  came  back  to  him  as  he  stood  with  the  weapon  in  his 


THE  CASTAWAY  347 

Land:  the  masked  priests;  the  half-naked  executioner; 
the  bandaged  criminal;  the  black  Christ  and  his  banner; 
the  slow  procession,  the  scaffold,  the  soldiery,  the  bell 
ringing  the  misericordia;  the  quick  rattle  and  fall  of 
the  ax. 

Shuddering,  he  flung  the  pistol  into  the  river  with  an 
imprecation. 

Looking  up  he  saw  a  gaitered  figure  that  moved 
briskly  along  the  street,  to  stop  at  the  Lanfranchi  door- 
way. Trevanion  recognized  the  severely  cut  clerical 
costume,  the  clean-shaven  face  with  its  broad  scar,  the 
queerish,  insect-like,  inquisitive  eyes.  He  glanced  down 
the  river  with  absurd  apprehension,  half  expecting  to  see 
His  Majesty's  ship  Pylades  anchored  in  its  muddy  shal- 
lows— the  ship  from  which  he  had  deserted  at  Bombay 
once  upon  a  time,  at  the  cost  of  that  livid  scar  on  Dr. 
Cassidy's  cheek. 

He  had  shrunk  from  Cassidy's  observation  in  the 
lights  of  a  London  street ;  but  in  Italy  he  had  no  fear. 
He  looked  the  naval  surgeon  boldly  in  the  face,  as  he 
passed  on  to  the  police  barracks. 

In  the  room  from  which  Trevanion  had  rushed,  Te- 
resa put  her  hand  on  her  brother's  arm.  Back  of  Gor- 
don's only  words  and  his  own  involuntary  and  unex- 
p'ected  action,  she  had  divined  some  joyful  circumstance 
of  which  she  was  ignorant.  What  it  was  she  was  too  re- 
lieved to  care. 

'^Come,'^  she  said  gently;  *Ve  have  much  to  say  to 
each  other." 

She  sent  one  swift  glance  at  Gordon;  then  the  door 
closed  between  them. 


CHAPTER  L 

CASSIDT  FINDS  A  LOST  SCENT 

On  Gordon,  in  the  shock  of  the  fatal  news  Teresa  had 
Ijrought,  the  menace  of  that  fateful  onslaught  had  fallen 
numbly.  No  issue  at  that  moment  would  have  mat- 
tered greatly  to  himself.  But  in  her  piteous  cry :  'TTou 
are  aiming  at  my  heart/^  he  had  awakened.  That  part- 
ing glance,  shining  with  fluctuant  love,  relief  and  as- 
surance, told  him  what  that  tragedy  might  have  meant  to 
her.  Absorbed  in  his  grief  he  had  scarcely  cared,  had 
scarcely  reckoned,  of  her. 

As  he  stood  alone  the  thought  stung  him  like  a 
<sword.  He  remembered  with  what  tenderness  she  had 
tried  to  blunt  the  edge  of  her  mournful  message. 

His  reverie  passed  with  the  entrance  of  Fletcher,  still 
tincertain  on  his  feet,  and  with  a  look  of  vast  relief  at 
the  placid  appearance  of  the  apartment.  A  messenger 
brought  a  request  from  the  Eev.  Dr.  Nott,  a  name  well- 
known  to  Gordon  in  London.  The  clergyman,  just  ar- 
rived in  Pisa,  asked  the  use  of  the  ground  floor  of  the 
Lanfranchi  Palace — ^he  understood  it  was  unoccupied — 
in  which  to  hold  service  on  the  following  Sunday. 

Over  the  smart  of  his  sorrow,  the  wraith  of  a  satiric 
smile  touched  Gordon's  lips.    He,  the  unelect  and  unre- 

(348) 


THE   CASTAWAY:^  349 

generate,  to  furnisli  a  tabernacle  for  Pisan  orthodoxy? 
The  last  sermon  he  had  read  was  one  preached  by  a 
London  divine  and  printed  in  an  English  magazine ;  its 
text  was  his  drama  of  "Cain/^  and  it  held  him  up  to  the 
world  as  a  denaturalized  being,  who,  having  drained  the 
cup  of  sensual  sin  to  its  bitterest  dregs,  was  resolved,  in 
that  apocalypse  of  blasphemy,  to  show  himself  a  cool, 
unconcerned  fiend. 

And  yet,  after  all,  the  request  was  natural  enough. 
The  palace  that  housed  him  was  the  most  magnificent  in 
Pisa,  in  proportions  almost  a  castle.  And,  in  fact,  the 
lowe?  floor  was  empty  and  unused.  Was  he  to  mar  this 
saner  existence,  in  which  he  felt  waking  those  old  in- 
spirations and  ideals,  with  the  crude  spirit  of  combative- 
ness  in  which  his  bruised  pride  took  refuge  when  popu- 
lar clamor  thrust  him  from  his  kind?  If  he  refused, 
would  not  the  very  refusal  be  made  a  further  weapon 
against  him  ? 

Had  Gordon  seen  the  mottled  clerical  countenance 
that  waited  for  answer  in  the  street  below  he  might  have 
read  a  partial  answer  to  this  question. 

Cassidy's  ship  having  anchored  at  Leghorn,  he  had 
embraced  the  opportunity  to  distribute  a  few  doctrinal 
tracts  among  the  English  residents  of  this  near  cathe- 
dral town.  Of  Gordon's  life  in  Pisa  he  heard  before  he 
left  the  ship.  In  the  Kev.  Dr.  Nott  he  had  found  an 
accidental  travelling  companion  with  an  eye  single  to  the 
glory  of  the  Established  Church,  who  was  even  then  be- 
moaning the  lack  of  spiritual  advantages  in  the  town 
to  which  he  was  bound.  His  zealous  soul  rejoiced  in  the 
acquaintance  and  fostered  it  on  arrival.  The  idea  of 
Sabbath  service  in  English  had  been  the  clergyman's; 


350:  THE   CASTAWAY 

that  of  the  Lanfranchi  Palace  as  a  place  wherein  to 
gather  the  elect,  had  been  Cassidy's.  The  suggestion 
was  not  without  a  certain  genius.  To  the  doctor's  up- 
lifted hands  he  had  remarked  with  unction  that  to  ask 
could  do  no  harm;  and  the  request,  even  if  refused, 
might  be  precious  seed  sown.  Cassidy  mentally  pre- 
saged refusal — ^which  should  make  text  and  material  for 
future  discourse  of  his  own. 

Waiting  at  the  Lanfranchi  entrance  he  remembered 
a  sermon  of  which  he  had  delivered  himself  years  be- 
fore at  Newstead  Abbey — ^perched  upon  a  table.  He 
had  never  forgotten  it.  He  touched  his  lips  with  his 
tongue  at  the  pious  thought  that  he  who  had  then  been 
master  of  the  Abbey — ^host  of  that  harebrained  crew  who 
afterward  made  him  a  butt  of  egregious  ridicule  in 
London — ^was  now  spurned  of  the  righteous. 

Gordon  at  that  hour  had  no  thought  of  Cassidy,  whom 
he  had  not  seen  in  years.  ''Say  to  the  messenger  that 
Mr.  Nott  is  very  welcome  to  the  use  of  the  floor/'  was 
the  answer  he  gave  the  valet. 

A  moment  later  Teresa  and  Count  Pietro  Gamba  re- 
entered. Teresa's  eyes  were  wet  and  shining.  Her 
brother's  face  was  calm.  He  came  frankly  to  Gordon 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

While  the  two  men  clasped  hands,  the  naval  surgeon 
was  ruminating  in  chagrin.  Gordon's  courteous  as- 
sent gave  him  anything  but  satisfaction.  He  took  it  to 
Dr.  Nott's  lodgings. 

As  Cassidy  set  foot  in  the  street  again  he  stopped 
suddenly  and  unaccountably.  At  the  Lanfranchi  portal 
in  the  dusk  he  had  had  a  view  of  a  swarthy  face  that 
roused  a  persistent,  baffling  memory.   The  unanticipated 


THE   CASTAWA13    ~  351] 

reply  lo  the  message  lie  had  carried  Had  Jarred  the 
puzzle  from  his  mind.  It  recurred  again  now,  and  with 
a  sudden  stab  of  recollection.  His  teeth  shut  together 
with  a  snap. 

He  lay  awake  half  that  night.  At  sun-up  he  was  on 
his  way  back  to  Leghorn,  with  a  piece  of  news  for  the 
commander  of  the  Pylades. 


CHAPTER  LI 

DR.  NOTT'S  sermon 

It  was  a  thirsty  afternoon.  Teresa  and  Mary  Shelley 
•—the  latter,  bonneted  and  gloved — sat  at  an  upper  win- 
dow of  the  palace,  watching  through  the  Venetian  blinds 
the  English  residents  of  Pisa  approaching  by  twos  and 
threes  the  entrance  below  them. 

Dr.  Nott's  service  had  been  well  advertised,  and  a 
pardonable  curiosity  to  gain  a  view,  however  limited, 
of  the  palace's  interior,  swelled  the  numbers.  Besides 
this,  one  of  the  Lanfranchi  servants  had  had  an  unlucky 
fracas  with  a  police  sergeant  which,  within  a  few  hours 
of  its  occurrence,  rumor  had  swollen  to  a  formidable  and 
bloody  affray :  Gordon  had  mortally  wounded  two  police 
dragoons  and  taken  refuge  in  his  house,  guarded  by  bull- 
dogs; he  had  been  captured  after  a  desperate  resist- 
ance; forty  brace  of  pistols  had  been  found  in  the 
palace.  These  tales  had  been  soon  exploded,  but  the  af- 
fair nevertheless  possessed  an  interest  on  this  Sunday 
afternoon. 

The  pair  at  the  window  conversed  on  various  top- 
ics; Pietro,  the  new  member  of  the  household,  and  his 
rescue  in  Lake  Geneva,  of  which'  Mary  had  told  Teresa'; 
Prince  Mavrocordato,  his  patron,  exiled  from  Wallachia^ 
(352); 


THE   CASTAWAY*  353 

and  watching  eagerly  the  plans  of  the  primages,  now 
shaping  to  revolution,  in  Greece,  his  native  country^ 
Shelley's  new  sail-boat,  the  Ariel^  anchored  at  the  river- 
bank,  a  stone's  throw  from  where  they  sat.  As  they 
talked  they  could  hear  from  the  adjoining  study  Gor- 
don's voice  reading  aloud  and  the  sharp,  eager,  explosive 
tones  of  Shelley  as  he  commented  or  admired. 

Both  watchers  at  length  fell  silent.  The  sight  of  the 
people  below,  soberly  frocked  and  coated,  so  unmistak- 
ably British  in  habiliment  and  demeanor,  had  brought 
pensive  thoughts  to  Mary  Shelley  of  the  England  and 
Sabbaths  of  her  girlhood.  Teresa  was  thinking  of  Gor- 
don. 

Since  the  hour  he  had  learned  that  melancholy 
news  from  Bagnacavallo  he  had  not  spoken  of  Allegra, 
but  there  had  been  a  look  in  his  face  that  told  how 
sharply  the  blow  had  pierced. 

If  there  had  been  a  lurking  jealousy  of  his  past  in 
which  she  had  no  part,  it  had  vanished  forever  when  he 
had  said,  with  that  patient  pathos  that  wrung  her  heart : 
'T  understand."  The  words  then  had  roused  in  her  some- 
thing even  deeper  than  the  maternal  instinct  that  had 
budded  when  she  took  him  wounded  to  Casa  Guiccioli, 
deeper  than  the  utter  joy  with  which  she  had  felt  his 
arms  as  they  rode  through  the  night  from  the  villa 
where  he  had  waked  her  from  that  deathlike  coma.  It 
was  a  sense  of  more  intimate  comprehension  to  whicli 
her  whole  being  had  vibrated  ever  since. 

Not  but  that  she  was  conscious  of  struggles  in  him 
that  she  did  not  fully  grasp.  But  to-day,  as  she  sat 
silent  by  the  window,  her  heart  was  saying:  "His  old 
life  is  gone — gone!    I  belong  to  his  new  life.    I  will 


354:'  THE   CASTAWAYi 

love  him  so  that  he  will  forget !  We  shall  live  always  iu 
Italy  together,  and  he  will  write  poems  that  the  whole 
world  will  read.  And  some  day  it  will  know  him  as  I 
dor 

The  sound  of  a  slow  h}Tnn  rose  from  the  floor  below, 
and  Teresa's  companion  stole  to  the  hall  where  the  words 
came  clearly  up  the  marble  staircase : 

"0  spirit  of  the  living  God, 

In  all  Thy  plenitude  of  grace. 

Where'er  the  foot  of  man  hath  trod. 

Descend  on  our  apostate  race." 

As  Mary  listened,  Teresa  came  and  stood  beside  her„ 
Convent  bred,  religion  to  her  had  meant  churchingSj, 
candled  processionals  and  adorations  before  the  crucifix 
which  hung  always  above  her  bed.  Her  mind  direct, 
imaginative,  yet  with  a  natural  freedom  from  traditional 
constraint,  suffered  for  the  home-nurtured  ceremony  left 
behind  in  her  flight  with  Gordon.  But  her  new  experi- 
ence retained  a  sense  of  devotion  deeper  because  more 
primitive  and  instinctive  than  these:  a  mystic  leaning 
out  toward  good  intelligences  all  about  her — ^the  pure 
longing  with  which  she  had  framed  the  prayer  for  Gor- 
don so  long  ago.  She  listened  eagerly  now,  not  only  be- 
cause of  the  priestly  suggestion  in  the  sound,  but  also 
from  a  thought  that  the  ceremony  below  had  been  a  part 
of  his  England. 

This  was  in  her  mind  as  a  weighty  voice  intoned  the 
opening  sentences,  to  drop  presently  to  the  recitation  of 
the  collect  for  the  day. 

While  thus  absorbed,  Gordon  and  Shelley  came  and 


THE   CASTAWAIS  355 

leaned  witH  them  at  the  top  of  the  stair.    The  congre- 
gation was  responding  now  to  the  Litany : 

"From  all  blindness -of  heart;  from  pride,  vain- 
glory  and  hypocrisy ;  from  envy,  hatred  and  malice,  and 
all  uncharitableness, 

"Good Lord,  deliver  us*' 

It  was  not  alone  Mary  Shelley  to  whom  memories 
were  hastening.  The  chant  recalled  to  Gordon,  with  a 
singular,  minnte  distinctness,  the  dreary  hours  in  the 
Milbanke  pew  in  the  old  church  at  Seaham,  where  he 
had  passed  that  "treacle-moon"  with  Annabel.  Blind- 
ness of  heart,  hatred,  uncharitableness:  he  had  known 
all  these. 

"From  lightning  and  tempest — ^" 

One  phase  of  his  old  life  was  lifting  before  him 
startlingly  clear:  the  phase  that  confounded  the  pre- 
cept with  the  practice  and  resented  hypocrisy  by  a  whole- 
sale railing  at  dogma — ^the  sneer  with  which  the  philo- 
sophic Eoman  shrugged  at  the  Galilean  altars.  The 
ancient  speculation  had  fallen  in  the  wreck  at  Venice—" 
to  rise  again  one  sodden  dawn  in  the  La  Mira  forest. 
The  discarded  images  had  re-arisen  then,  but  with  new 
outlines.  They  still  framed  skepticism,  but  it  was  de- 
sponding, not  scofiSng — a  hopelessness  whose  climax  was 
reached  in  his  soul's  bitter  cry  to  Padre  Somalian  at  San 
Lazzarro :  "7/  it  were  only  true !"  Since,  he  had  learned 
the  supreme  awakening  of  love  which  had  already 
aroused  his  conscience,  and  now  in  its  development,  that 


356  THE    CASTAWAY 

love,  lighting  and  warming  his  whole  field  of  humau 
sympathy,  made  him  conscious  of  appetences  hitherto* 
nnguessed. 

"That  it  may  please  Thee  to  forgive  our  enemies,  per- 
secutors, and  slanderers,  and  turn  their  hearts ; 
"We  "beseech  Thee  to  hear  us,  good  Lord" 

Gordon  neither  smiled  now  nor  frowned. 

The  chant  died  while  the  visitors  said  their  adieus. 
The  feeling  of  estrangement  had  been  deepening  in 
Shelle/s  fair-haired  wife.  For  a  moment  she  had  been 
back  in  old  St.  Giles'-in-the-Fields,  whither  she  had 
gone  so  often  of  a  Sunday  from  William  Godwin's 
musty  book-shop.    She  put  her  hand  on  Shelley's  arm. 

"Bysshe/'  she  whispered,  "let  us  stop  a  while  as  we  go 
down.  It  seems  so  like  old  times.  We  can  slip  in  at  the 
back  and  leave  before  the  rest.    Will  you  ?" 

Shelley  looked  ruefully  at  his  loose  nankeen  trousers, 
liis  jacket  sleeves  worn  from  handling  the  tiller,  and 
shook  his  tangled  hair,  but  seeing  her  wistful  expression, 
acquiesced. 

"Very  well,  Mary,"  he  said ;  "come  along."  He  fol- 
lowed her,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  impromptu  audience-room, 
Mary  drew  back  uncertainly.  The  benches  had  been  so 
disposed  that  the  late-comers  found  themselves  fronting 
the  side  of  the  audience  and  the  center  of  curious  eyes. 
Shelley  colored  at  the  scrutiny,  but  it  was  too  late  to  re- 
tire, and  they  seated  themselves  in  the  rear. 

At  the  moment  of  their  entry  the  Kev.  Dr.  Nott,  in 


THE    CASTAWAY^  357 

cassock  and  surplice,  having  laid  off  the  priest  (he  was 
an  exact  high-churchman)  was  kissing  the  center  of  the 
preacher's  stole.  He  settled  the  garment  on  his  shoul- 
ders with  satisfaction.  He  had  been  annoyed  at  the  dis- 
appearance of  Cassidy,  on  whose  aid  he  had  counted  for 
many  preliminary  details,  but  the  presence  of  the  author 
of  "Queen  Mab'^  more  than  compensated.  This  would 
indeed  be  good  seed  sown.  He  proceeded  with  zeal  to 
the  text  of  his  sermon : 

^TTe  are  of  your  father  the  devil,  and  the  lusts  of 
your  father  ye  will  do.'' 

A  flutter  winged  among  the  benches  and  the  blood  flew 
to  Mary's  cheek  as  he  doled  the  words  a  second  time. 

With  his  stay  in  the  town,  the  clergyman's  concern 
had  grown  at  the  toleration  with  which  it  regarded  the 
presence  of  this  reprobated  apostle  of  hellish  unbelief. 
The  thought  had  been  strong  in  his  mind  as  he  wrote 
his  sermon.  This  was  an  opportunity  to  sound  the 
alarum  of  faith.    His  face  shone  with  ardor. 

The  doctor  possessed  a  vocabulary.  His  voice  was  so- 
norous, his  vestments  above  reproach.  He  was  under  the 
very  roof  of  Asteroth,  with  the  visible  presence  of  anti- 
Christ  before  his  eyes.  The  situation  was  inspiratory. 
From  a  brief  judicial  arraignment  of  skepticism,  he 
launched  into  allusions  unmistakably  personal,  beneath 
which  Mary  Shelley  sat  quivering  with  resentment,  her 
softer  sentiment  of  Jang  syne  turned  to  bitter  regret. 
Furtive  glances  were  upon  the  pair;  Pisa — ^the  English 
part  of  it — was  enjoying  a  new  sensation. 

A  pained,  flushing  wonder  was  in  Shelley's  diffident, 
bright  eyes  as  the  clergyman,  with  outstretched  arm, 
thundered  toward  them  the  warning  of  Paul : 


358  THE   CASTAWAY! 

'^Beware  lest  any  man  spoil  you  throngli  philoso- 
phy and  vain  deceit,  after  the  tradition  of  men,  after  the 
rudiments  of  the  world!  Their  throat  is  an  open 
sepuleher ;  the  poison  of  asps  is  under  their  lips/' 

Mary's  hand  had  found  her  husband's.  "Let  us  go/^ 
he  said  in  an  undertone,  and  drew  her  to  her  feet.  They 
passed  to  the  door,  the  cynosure  of  observation,  the 
launched  utterance  pursuing  them: 

'^Whose  mouth  is  full  of  cursing  and  bitterness,  and 
the  way  of  peace  have  they  not  known." 

In  the  street  Mary  turned  to  him.  "Don't  mind, 
Bysshe,"  she  pleaded. 

He  half  smiled,  but  his  eyes  were  feverishly  bright. 
He  kissed  her  as  he  answered : 

*^I'm  going  for  a  sail.  Don't  worry  if  I'm  not  back 
to-night.  I'll  run  up  to  Via  Reggia.  The  wind  will  do 
me  good." 

He  crossed  the  pavement  bareheaded  and  leaped  into 
his  sail-boat.  A  moment  later,  from  the  bridge,  she  saw 
through  clouding  tears  the  light  craft  careening  down 
the  Arno  toward  the  sea. 

The  agitated  ripple  of  the  audience  that  followed  their 
exit  was  not  yet  stilled  when  the  discourse  was  strangely 
interrupted.  From  the  pavement  came  the  sound  of 
running  feet,  a  hoarse  shout  and  a  shot,  ringing  out 
sharply  on  the  Sabbath  stillness. 

A  second  later  a  man  dashed  panting  into  the  outer 
hall  with  a  British  marine  at  his  heels. 


CHAPTER  LII 

TREVANION  IN"  THE  TOILS 

In  sending  Trevanion  that  day  to  the  barracks  on  the 
Lung'  Amo — whose  door  Cassidy  had  once  seen  him 
enter  and  in  whose  vicinity  the  naval  surgeon,  f oUowing^ 
this  clue,  had  posted  his  squad  of  tars — luck  had  fallen 
oddly.  The  coursed  hare  has  small  choice  of  hurrow. 
The  Lanfranchi  entrance  was  the  quarry's  only  loophole 
and  he  took  it. 

As  the  hunted  man  sprang  across  the  threshold  he 
snatched  the  great  iron  key  from  the  lock  and  swung  it 
on  the  head  of  his  pursuer.  The  marine  dropped  with  a 
cut  forehead,  falling  full  in  the  doorway  of  the  room 
where  the  service  was  in  progress. 

Instantly  the  gathering  was  in  confusion.  The  ser- 
mon ceased,  women  screamed  and  their  escorts  poured 
into  the  hall  to  meet  Cassidy,  entering  from  the  street, 
flushed  and  exultant,  with  a  half-dozen  more  blue- 
jackets. 

His  foremost  pursuer  fallen,  Trevanion  leaped  like 
a  stag  for  the  stair.  But  half-way  up  he  stopped  at 
eight  of  a  figure  from  whom  he  could  hope  no  grace. 
Grordon  had  heard  the  signal-shot,  armed  himself  and 
hastened  to  the  stairway. 

(359y 


360  THE   CASTAWAY 

[For  bnce  in  his  life  Cassidy  was  oblivious  of  things 
religions.  He  had  forgot  the  afternoon's  service.  He 
scarcely  saw  Dr.  Nott's  horror-lifted  hands  as  his  cas- 
sock fluttered  between  frightened  worshipers  to  the  door. 
His  look  did  not  travel  to  Gordon  or  beyond,  where  Te- 
resa's agitated  face  watched  palely.  His  round,  peering 
eyes  fastened  with  malignant  triumph  on  the  lowering 
figure  midway  of  the  marble  ascent. 

^^Now,  my  fine  ensign,"  he  said  with  exultation,  "what 
have  you  to  say  to  a  trip  to  the  Pyladesf 

Trevanion's  dark  face  whitened.  But  his  hand  still 
gripped  the  key. 

"I  had  enough  of  your  cursed  ship !"  he  flung  in  surly 
defiance,  "and  you'll  not  take  me,  either.'^ 

Cassidy  laughed  and  turned  to  the  seamen  at  his  back. 
They  stepped  forward. 

In  Gordon's  mind,  in  that  moment  of  tension,  crucial 
forces  were  weirdly  contending.  Over  the  heads  of  the 
group  below,  through  the  open  door,  he  saw  a  ship's 
jolly-boat,  pulling  along  the  Arno  bank.  Leghorn — ^the 
Pylades — and  years  in  a  military  fortress.  That  was 
what  it  meant  for  Trevanion.  And  what  for  him  ?  The 
peace  he  coveted,  a  respite  of  persecution,  for  him  and 
for  Teresa — ^the  right  to  live  and  work  unmolested. 

It  was  a  lawless  act — ^seizure  unwarranted  and  on  a 
foreign  soil;  an  attempt  daring  but  not  courageous — 
they  were  ten  against  one.  It  was  a  deed  of  personal 
and  private  revenge  on  the  part  of  Cassidy.  And  the 
man  had  taken  refuge  under  his  roof.  For  any  other 
he  would  have  interposed  from  a  sheer  sense  of  justice 
and  hatred  of  hypocrisy.  But  for  Mm — a  poltroon,  a 
skulker,  and — ^his  enemy? 


THE   CASTAWAY  361 

What  right  had  he  to  interfere?  The  manner  was 
high-handed,  but  the  penalty  owed  to  British  admiralty 
was  just.  It  was  not  his  affair.  The  hour  he  had  sat 
in  the  moonlight  near  the  Eavenna  osteria,  when  his 
conscience  had  accepted  this  Nemesis,  he  had  put  away 
the  temptation  to  harm  him ;  though  the  other's  weapon 
had  struck,  he  had  lifted  no  hand.  He  had  left  all  to 
fate.  And  fate  was  arranging  now.  He  had  not  sum- 
moned those  marines ! 

But  through  these  strident  voices  sounded  a  clearer 
one  in  his  soul.  It  was  not  for  that  long-buried  shame 
and  cowardice  in  Greece — not  for  the  attempt  on  his 
life  at  Bagnacavallo,  nor  for  anything  belonging  to  the 
present — ^that  Trevanion  stood  now  in  this  plight.  It 
was  ostensibly  for  an  act  antedating  either,  one  he  him- 
self had  known  and  mentally  condoned  years  ago — ^a 
boy's  desertion  from  a  hateful  routine.  If  he  let  him 
be  taken  now,  was  he  not  a  party  to  Cassidy's  revenge  ? 
Would  he  be  any  better  than  Cassidy  ?  Would  it  be  in 
him  also  any  less  than  an  ignoble  and  personal  retalia- 
tion— ^what  he  had  promised  himself,  come  what  might, 
he  would  not  seek  ? 

He  strode  down  the  stair,  past  Trevanion,  and  faced 
the  advancing  marines. 

"Pardon  me,''  he  said.  "This  man  is  in  my  house. 
By  what  right  do  you  pursue  him?" 

The  blue-jackets  stopped.  A  blotch  of  red  sprang  in 
Cassidy's  straw-colored  cheeks. 

"He  is  a  deserter  from  a  king's  ship.  These  marines 
are  under  orders.    Hinder  them  at  your  peril !" 

"This  is  Italy,  not  the  high  seas,'^  rejoined  Gordon 


363  THE   CASTAWAY) 

calmly.  'British  law  does  not  reach  here.  You  may 
say  that  to  the  captain  of  the  Pylades." 

Cassidy  turned  furiously  to  his  men.  ^^o  on  and 
take  himP  he  commanded. 

Again  they  advanced,  but  they  looked  full  into  Gor- 
don's pistol  and  the  voice  behind  it  said : 

"That,  under  this  roof,  no  man  shall  do!  On  my 
word  as  a  peer  of  England  V* 

A  few  moments  later,  Cassidy,  his  face  purpled  with' 
disappointment,  had  led  his  marines  into  the  street, 
the  agitated  clergyman  had  gathered  his  flock  again, 
and  the  hall  was  clear. 

A  postern  gate  opened  from  the  Lanfranchi  garden 
and  to  this  Gordon  led  Trevanion  without  a  word.  The 
latter  passed  out  with  eyes  that  did  not  meet  his  de- 
liverer's. 

As  Gordon  climbed  the  stairway  to  where  Teresa 
waited,  shaken  with  the  occurrence,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Nott 
was  rounding  the  services  so  abruptly  terminated  with 
the  shorter  benediction: 

"The  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  love 
of  God,  and  the  fellowship  of  the  Holy  Ghost^  be  witK 
us  all  evermore.   Amen." 


CHAPTER  LIII 

THE  COMING  OF  DALLAS 

^^Go  on,  Dallas/^  said  Gordon. 

He  was  standing  in  his  study,  its  windows  thrown 
open  to  the  stifling  air,  the  blinds  drawn  against  the 
pitiless  sun  that  beat  hotly  up  from  the  sluggish  Arno 
and  loaded  the  world  with  fire.  In  the  parched  orange- 
trees  in  the  garden  cicalas  shrilled  and  from  the  dusty 
street  came  the  chant  of  a  procession  of  religiosi,  bear- 
ing relics  and  praying  for  rain. 

The  man  who  sat  by  the  table  wore  the  same  kindly, 
scholarly  face  that  Gordon  had  known  of  old,  though 
his  soft  white  hair  was  sparer  at  the  temples.  To  make 
this  journey  he  had  spent  the  last  of  a  check  he  had 
once  received  for  six  hundred  pounds.  His  faith  in 
Gordon  had  never  wavered.  Now,  as  he  looked  at  the 
figure  standing  opposite,  clad  in  white  waistcoat  and 
tartan  hussar-braided  jacket  of  the  Gordon  plaid,  young 
and  lithe,  though  with  brown  locks  grayed,  and  with 
eyes  brilliantly  haunting  and  full  of  a  purpose  they  had 
never  before  possessed,  his  own  gaze  misted  with  hope 
and  wistfulness.  He  had  had  an  especial  object  in  this 
long  journey  to  Italy. 

^'Hobhouse  is  still  with  his  regiment,"  he  proceeded. 
(363)    o 


S64  THE    CASTAWAY 

*'He'll  be  in  Parliament  before  long.  We  dined  together 
just  a  month  ago  to-night  at  White's  Club.  Lord  Pe- 
tersham is  the  leader  of  the  dandies  now.  Brummell 
left  England  for  debt.'' 

In  that  hour's  conversation  Gordon  had  seen  faded 
pictures  fearfully  distinct.  He  seemed  to  be  standing 
again  in  his  old  lodgings  in  St.  James  Street — a  red 
carnation  in  his  buttonhole — ^facing  Beau  Brummell 
and  Sheridan.  He  remembered  how  he  had  once  let  the 
old  wit  down  in  his  cocked  hat  at  Brookes' — as  he  had 
long  ago  been  let  down  into  his  grave !  He  smiled  pain- 
fully while  he  said  with  slowness : 

'Three  great  men  ruined  in  one  year:  Bonaparte, 
Brummell  and  I.  A  king,  a  cad,  and  a  castaway !"  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  empty  fireplace  as  he  spoke,  but 
what  they  saw  was  very  far  away. 

''How  is  Murray?"  he  asked  presently. 

"I  visited  him  a  fortnight  before  I  left.  He  had  just 
published  the  first  part  of  'Don  Juan'." 

Gordon  winced.    "Well?"  he  asked. 

"He  put  only  the  printer's  name  on  the  title-page. 
The  day  it  appeared  he  went  to  the  country  and  shut 
himself  up.  He  had  not  even  dared  open  his  letters." 

"I  can't  blame  him ;" — Gordon's  voice  was  metallic — 
^'Moore  wrote  me  the  attorney-general  would  probably 
suppress  it." 

"I  carried  him  the  reviews,"  continued  Dallas. 

"I  can  guess  their  verdict !" 

The  other  shook  his  head  with  an  eager  smile  that 
brightened  his  whole  countenance.  "A  few  condemned, 
of  course.  Many  hedged.  But  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
mew — " 


THE    CASTAWAY*  365 

^^Jeffrey.  What  did /le  say?'' 

The  answer  came  with  a  vibrant  emphasis:  ^^That 
every  word  was  touched  with  immortality  \" 

Gordon  turned,  surprised  into  wonder.  His  ancient 
detractor,  whose  early  blow  had  struck  from  the  flint 
in  his  soul  that  youthful  flash,  his  dynamic  Satire.  The 
literary  Nero  whose  nod  had  killed  Keats.  Was  the 
old  sneer  become  praise — now?  Immortality! — not 
"damned  to  everlasting  fame"?  A  glow  of  color  came 
to  his  face. 

The  older  man  got  up  hastily  and  laid  his  hand 
affectionately  on  the  other's  shoulder.  It  seemed  the 
moment  to  say  what  was  on  his  mind.    His  voice  shook : 

"George,  come  back  to  England !  Do  not  exile  your- 
self longer.  It  is  ready  to  forget  its  madness  and  to 
regret.  Public  feeling  has  changed !  When  Lady  Car- 
oline Lamb  published  'Glenarvon,'  her  novel  that  made 
you  out  a  man-monster,  it  did  not  sell  an  edition.  She 
appeared  at  Lady  Jersey's  masquerade  as  Don  Juan  in 
the  costume  of  a  Mephistopheles,  and  the  crowd  even 
hissed.  London  is  waiting  for  you,  George!  All  it 
gave  you  once  shall  be  yours  again.  You  have  only  to 
come  back!" 

It  was  out  at  last,  the  purport  of  his  journey. 

Gordon  felt  his  muscles  grow  rigid.  The  meaning  of 
other  things  Dallas  had  told — ^gossip  of  society  and  the 
clubs — was  become  apparent.  Could  the  tide  have 
turned,  then?  Could  it  be  that  the  time  had  come 
when  his  presence  could  reverse  the  popular  verdict, 
cover  old  infamy  and  quench  in  renewed  reputation 
the  poisoned  enmity  that  had  poured  desolation  on 
his  path  ?    The  fawning  populace  that  had  made  of  his 


366  THE   CASTAWAY 

domestic  life  only  a  shredded  remnant,  hounded  him 
to  the  wilds  and  entombed  him  in  black  infamy — did  it 
think  now  to  reestablish  the  dishonored  idol  on  its  ped- 
estal? 

For  an  instant  the  undiked  memory  of  all  he  had 
undergone  swept  over  him  in  a  stifling  wave.  The 
months  of  self-control  faded.  The  new  man  that  had 
been  born  in  the  forest  of  La  Mira  fell  away.  The  old 
rage  rose  to  clutch  at  his  throat — ^the  fiery,  ruthless 
defiance  that  had  lashed  his  enemies  in  Almack's  As- 
sembly Eooms.  It  drove  the  color  from  his  face  and 
lent  flame  to  his  eyes  as  he  answered  hoarsely: 

"JSTo !  Never — ^never  again !  It  is  over  forever.  When 
I  wrote  then,  it  was  not  for  the  world's  pleasure  or 
pride.  I  wrote  from  the  fullness  of  my  mind,  from  pas- 
sion, from  impulse.  And  since  I  would  not  flatter  their 
opinions,  they  drove  me  out — the  shilling  scribblers  and 
scoundrels  of  priests,  who  do  more  harm  than  all  the 
infidels  who  ever  forgot  their  catechisms,  and  who,  if 
the  Christ  they  profess  to  worship  reappeared,  would 
again  crucify  Him!  Since  then  I  have  fed  the  lamp 
burning  in  my  brain  with  tears  from  my  eyes  and  with 
blood  from  my  heart.  It  shall  burn  on  without  them 
to  the  end!" 

His  old  tutor's  hand  had  dropped  from  his  shoulder. 
Dallas  was  crestfallen  and  disconcerted.  He  turned 
away  to  the  window  and  looked  out  sadly  over  the 
Arno,  where  a  ship's  launch  floated  by  with  band  in- 
struments playing. 

For  Gordon  the  rage  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 
The  stubborn  demon  that  had  gnashed  at  its  fetters  fell 
back.     A  feeling  of  shame  suddenly  possessed  him. 


THE   CASTAWAY  367. 

'^Scoundrels  of  priests!"  He  thought  of  Padre  So- 
malian  with  a  swift  sense  of  contrition  that  his  most 
reckless  phraseology  had  never  roused  in  the  old  days. 

Standing  there,  regaining  his  temperate  control,  a 
sound  familiar,  yet  long  unheard,  floated  in  from  out 
of  doors.  It  was  a  strain  belonging  to  the  past  that 
had  come  so  sharply  home  to  him — ^the  sound  of  the 
music  on  the  launch  in  the  river  playing  "God  save  the 
King.- 

It  fell  on  Gordon's  ear  with  a  strange  thrill.  A  tinge 
of  softer  warmth  crept  back  slowly  to  his  cheeks.  For 
the  first  time  in  these  years  the  hatred  of  his  country" 
that  had  darkled  in  the  silt  of  ignominy  vanished  and 
a  tenderer  feeling  took  its  place.  It  was  the  inalien- 
able instinct  of  the  Englishman,  the  birthright  of 
English  blood,  transmitted  to  him  through  long  lines 
of  ancestry,  from  Norman  barons  who  came  with  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror,  welling  up  now,  strong  and  sweet 
and  not  to  be  denied.  England!  He  had  loved  it; 
once!  In  spite  of  a  rebellious  birth,  an  acid  home,  a 
harsh  combative  youth,  he  had  loved  it !  How  often  he 
had  heard  that  air — at  Yauxhall — in  the  Mall — on  the 
Thames!  It  brought  back  the  smell  of  primroses,  of 
blossoming  yellow  thorn  and  hazel-catkins  quivering  in 
the  hedges.  Some  lost  spring  of  recollection,  automat- 
ically touched,  showed  him  the  balcony  of  his  house  on 
Piccadilly  Terrace  on  the  regent's  birthday — ^below, 
the  rattling  of  curbs  and  scabbards,  the  Hussar  band 
playing  that  tune — ^he  himself  sitting  with  Annabel, 
and  in  her  arms,  Ada,  his  child !  There  were  questions, 
unvoiced  as  yet,  which  he  had  longed  but  dreaded  to 
ask.    His  hand  strayed  to  his  breast.    There,  always 


a68  THE    CASTAWAY 

worn,  was  a  tress  of  bab/s  hair.  What  might  his  re- 
habilitation have  meant  to  her,  as  she  grew  and  took 
her  place  in  the  world? 

He  approached  the  window  and  touched  the  man  who 
looked  out. 

^'Dallas!"  he  said.     '^— Dallas r 

The  other  turned.  His  eyes  were  moist.  He  saw  the 
alteration  in  Gordon's  mood. 

'^George/'  he  urged  huskily,  "do  you  not  owe  it  to 
some  one  else  T^ 

There  was  some  one  else — ^not  the  one  Dallas  meant — 
some  one  he  had  not  seen!  Gordon's  gaze  turned,  too, 
to  the  river,  flowing  now  like  liquid  lead  with  an  oily 
Bcum  under  a  smoky  char  that,  while  they  talked,  had 
been  swiftly  rising  to  paint  out  the  quivering  track  of 
the  sun.  The  launch  was  speeding  for  the  opposite 
landing,  the  musicians  covering  their  instruments. 
Even  if  all  Dallas  said  were  true !  Go  back — and  leave 
Teresa?  For  Ada's  sake,  who  would  live  to  bear  his 
name,  to  return  to  an  empty  reinstatement,  and  stifle 
with  the  pulpy  ashes  of  dead  flres  this  love  that  warmed 
his  new  life!  For  Ada's  sake — ^go  back,  and  leave 
Teresa? 

The  visitor  spoke  again.  When  he  had  asked  that 
question,  a  child  not  a  woman  had  been  in  his  thought. 
He  had  not  told  all  he  had  come  to  say. 

"I  have  been  to  Seaham,  George;  I  went  to  Lady 
Noel's  funeral." 

His  hearer  started.  'Ton  saw  Ada?"  he  asked,  his 
features  whitening.  ^Tou  saw  her?"  He  clutched 
Dallas'  wrist.  *^She  is  six  years  old.  Did  she  speak  my 
name,  Dallas?    What  do  they  teach  her  of  me?" 


THE    CASTAWAY  369 

The  other's  tone  was  almost  as  strained;  the  stor^r 
he  had  to  tell  was  a  hard  one. 

'  "Your  portrait,  the  large  one  painted  the  year  you 
were  married,  hung  above  the  mantelpiece.  It  was 
covered  with  a  heavy  curtain.  Lady  NoeFs  will  for- 
bade that  the  child  should  see  it  before  her  twentieth 
year.    Laddie,  Ada  has  never  heard  your  name!" 

Dallas  stopped  abruptly  at  the  look  on  Gordon's  face. 
Ko  anger  showed  there,  only  the  dull  gray  of  mortal 
hurt.  A  curious  moaning  sound  had  arisen,  forerunner 
of  the  sultry  tempest  that  had  been  gathering,  rapid 
as  anger.  The  cicalas  had  ceased  shrilling  from  the 
garden.  A  peculiar  warm  dampness  was  in  the  air 
and  a  drop  of  rain  splashed  on  the  marble  sill. 

"Do  you  wonder,"  Dallas  continued  after  a  pause, 
**that  I  want  you  to  go  back  ?" 

Gordon  made  no  reply.  His  eyes  were  focused  on  a 
purple  stain  of  storm  mounting  to  the  zenith,  like  some 
caryatid  upholding  a  caldron  of  steam,  all  ink  and 
cloud  color,  while  before  it  slaty  masses  of  vapor  fled 
like  monstrous  behemoths,  quirted  into  some  gigantic 
sky-inclosure. 

Dallas  pulled  the  window  shut. 

With  the  action,  unheralded  as  doom,  a  great  violet 
sword  of  lightning  wrote  the  autograph  of  God  across 
the  sky,  and  a  shock  of  thunder,  instantaneous  and 
crashing  like  near  ordnance,  shook  the  walls  of  the  pal- 
ace. It  loosed  the  vicious  pandemonium  of  the  tropic  air 
into  tornado,  sudden  and  appalling. 

While  the  echoes  of  that  detonation  still  reverberated, 
into  the  room,  as  though  hurled  from  the  wing  of  the 


370  THE   CASTAWAY] 

unleashed  wind,  came  Mary  Shelley,  drenched  with  the 
rain,  bareheaded,  gasping. 

^"^Shelley's  boat  has  not  returned!"  she  wailed.  '^He 
is  at  sea  in  the  storm.  Oh,  I  am  afraid — afraid — 
afraid !" 

Teresa  entered  at  the  moment  with  a  frightened  face, 
loose-haired  and  pale,  and  Mary  ran  to  her,  sobbing. 

Gordon  had  turned  from  the  window,  but  his  coun- 
tenance was  void  and  expressionless.  "Shelley?"  he 
repeated  vacantly,  and  sat  down  heavily  in  the  nearest 
chair. 

Teresa  suddenly  put  the  arms  of  the  weeping  girl 
aside  and  ran  to  him. 

"Gordon!"  she  cried,  as  Dallas  hurried  forward  in 
alarm.    "Gordon,  what  is  it?" 

"England — Teresa — "  he  said.  Then  his  head  fell 
forward  against  her  breast. 

For  twelve  hours,  while  the  wild,  typhoon-like  storm 
raved  and  shrieked  over  Pisa,  Gordon  lay  seemingly  iu 
a  deep  sleep.  He  did  not  wake  till  the  next  dawn  was 
breaking,  wetly  bright  and  cool.  When  he  woke,  it  was 
to  healthful  life,  without  recollection  of  pain  or  vision. 

And  yet  in  those  hours  intervening,  strange  things 
happened  hundreds  of  leagues  away  in  England. 

Has  genius,  that  epilepsy  of  the  soul,  a  shackled 
self,  which  under  rare  stress  can  leave  the  flesh  for  a 
pilgrimage  whose  memory  is  afterward  hidden  in  that 
clouded  abyss  that  lies  between  its  waking  and  its 
dreaming?  Did  some  subtle  telepathy  exist  between 
his  soul  in  Italy  and  the  soul  that  he  had  transmitted 
to  his  child?    Who  can  tell? 


THE  CASTAWAY  Sit 

But  thai  same  afternoon,  while  one  George  Gordon 
lay  moveless  in  the  Lanfranchi  library,  another  George 
Gordon  wrote  his  name  in  the  visitor's  book  at  the 
king's  palace,  in  St.  James  Park,  London.  Lady  Caro- 
line Lamb,  from  her  carriage  seat,  saw  him  entering 
Palace  Yard  and  took  the  news  to  Melbourne  House. 
The  next  morning's  papers  were  full  of  his  return. 

That  night,  too,  she  who  had  once  been  Annabel  Mil- 
banke,  woke  unaccountably  in  her  room  at  Seaham,  in 
the  county  of  Durham,  to  find  the  trundle-bed  in  which 
her  little  daughter  Ada  slept,  empty. 

She  roused  a  servant  and  searched.  In  the  drawing- 
room  a  late  candle  burned,  and  here,  in  her  night- 
gown, the  wee  wanderer  was  found,  tearless,  wide-awake 
and  unafraid,  gazing  steadfastly  above  the  mantle- 
piece. 

The  mother  looked  and  cried  out.  The  curtain  had 
fallen  from  its  fastenings,  and  the  child  was  looking 
at  her  father's  portrait. 


CHAPTER  LIT 


THE  PYEE 


Over  the  hillocks,  under  the  robed  boughs  of  the 
Pisan  forest,  went  a  barouche,  drawn  by  four  post- 
horses  ready  to  drop  from  the  intensity  of  the  noonday 
sun.  In  it  were  Gordon  and  Dallas.  They  had  been 
etrangely  silent  during  this  ride.  From  time  to  time 
■Dallas  wiped  his  forehead  and  murmured  of  the  heat. 
Gordon  answered  in  monosyllables. 

They  had  reached  a  lonely  stretch  of  beach-wilder- 
ness, broken  by  tufts  of  underwood,  gnawed  by  tempests 
and  stunted  by  ilie  l^arren  soil.  Before  it  curved  the 
blue  windless  Mediterranean,  cradling  the  Isle  of  Elba. 
Behind,  the  view  was  bounded  by  the  Italian  Alps,  vol- 
canic crags  of  white  marble,  -white  and  sulphury  like 
a  frozen  hurricane.  Across  the  sandy  extent,  at  equal 
distances,  rose  high,  square  battlemented  towers,  guard- 
ing the  coast  from  smugglers. 

Gordon's  gaze,  though  it  was  fixed  on  the  spot  they 
were  approaching,  saw  only  a  woman's  desolated  form 
clasped  in  Teresa's  sympathizing  arms. 

At  a  spot  marked  by  the  withered  trunk  of  a  fir- 
itree,  near  a  ramshackle  hut  covered  with  reeds — a  flimsy 
shelter  for  night  patrols — ^the  vehicle  stopped  and  Gor- 


THE    CASTAWAY  373 

don  descended.  A  little  way  off  was  pitched  a  tent,  by 
which  stood  a  group  of  mounted  dragoons  and  Italian 
laborers,  the  latter  with  mattocks  in  their  hands.  A 
single  figure  came  from  the  group  and  greeted  him. 

It  was  Trevanion.  Gordon  had  not  seen  him  since 
the  hour  of  that  Sabbath  service  from  which  Shelley 
had  fled — to  the  fatal  storm  whose  wrecks  strewed  the 
sand  where  they  now  stood.  Since  Mary  Shelley  had 
rushed  into  the  Lanfranchi  Palace  with  that  cry  of 
terror  and  foreboding,  days  had  passed:  days  of  sick 
search,  hurrying  couriers,  wild  speculation  and  fearful 
hope.  All  this  had  ended  with  the  message  from  Tre- 
Tanion  which  had  sent  the  laborers  and  brought  the 
barouche  to-day  to  the  lonely  spot  where  the  sea  had 
given  up  its  dead. 

The  man  who  had  sent  this  message  was  unkempt 
and  unshaven,  his  swarthy  face  clay-pale,  his  black  eyes 
bloodshot.  He  had  searched  the  coast  day  and  night, 
sleepless  and  savage.  There  had  been  desperation  in  his 
toil.  In  his  semi-barbaric  blood  had  raged  a  curious 
conflict  between  his  hatred  of  Gordon  and  something 
roused  by  the  other's  act  in  delivering  him  from  Cas- 
sidy's  marines.  He  was  by  instinct  an  Oriental,  and 
instinct  led  him  to  revenge;  but  his  strain  of  Welsh 
blood  made  his  enemy's  magnanimity  unforgeftable  and 
had  driven  him  to  this  fierce  effort  for  an  impersonal 
requital.  Because  Shelley  had  been  the  friend  of  the 
man  he  hated  but  who  had  aided  him,  the  deed  in  some 
measure  satisfied  the  crude  remorse  that  fought  with 
his  vulpine  enmity. 

Almost  touching  the  creeping  lip  of  surf,  three  wands 
stood  upright  in  the  sand.     Trevanion  beckoned  the 


374  ^-^        THE   CASTAWAY 

laborers  and  Ihey  began  to  dig  in  silence.  At  length' 
a  hollow  sound  followed  the  thrust  of  a  mattock. 

Gordon  drew  nearer.  He  heard  leadenly  the  mut- 
tered conversation  of  the  workmen  as  they  waited,  lean- 
ing on  their  spades — saw  but  dimly  the  uniforms  of  the 
dragoons.  He  scarcely  felt  the  hot  sand  scorching  his 
feet. 

Was  the  object  they  had  unearthed  that  whimsical 
youth  whom  he  had  seen  first  in  the  Fleet  Prison  ?  The 
unvarying  friend  who  had  searched  him  out  at  San 
Lazzarro — true-hearted,  saddened  but  not  resentful  for 
the  world's  contumely,  his  gaze  unwavering  from  that 
empyrean  in  which  swam  his  lustrous  ideals?  This 
battered  flotsam  of  the  tempest — could  this  be  Shelley? 
.  From  the  pocket  of  the  faded  blue  jacket  a  book  pro- 
truded. He  stooped  and  drew  it  out.  It  was  the  "CEdi- 
pus"  of  Sophocles,  doubled  open. 

"Aidoneus!    Aidoneus,  I  implore 
Grant  thou  the  stranger  wend  his  way 
To  that  dim  land  that  houses  all  the  dead. 
With  no  long  agony  or  voice  of  woe. 
For  so,  though  many  evils  undeserved 
Upon  his  life  have  fallen, 
God,  the  All- Just,  shall  raise  him  up  again!" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  page  as  Trevanion  spoke 
his  name.  He  followed  him  to  the  tent.  Beside  it  the 
laborers  had  heaped  a  great  mass  of  driftwood  and 
fagots  gathered  from  a  stunted  pine-growth. 

Shuffling  footsteps  fell  behind  him — he  knew  they 
were  bearing  the  body..  He  averted  his  eyes,  smelling 
the  pungent,  aromatic  odors  of  the  frankincense,  wine 
and  salt  that  were  poured  over  all. 


THE   CASTAWAY  375 

Trevanion  came  from  the  tent  with  a  torch  and  put  it 
into  his  hands.  Gordon's  fingers  shook  as  he  held  it  to 
the  fagots,  but  he  did  the  work  thoroughly,  lighting  all 
four  corners.  Then  he  flung  the  torch  into  the  sea, 
climbed  the  slope  of  a  dune  and  sat  down,  feeling  for 
an  instant  a  giddiness,  half  of  the  sun's  heat  and  half 
of  pure  horror. 

The  flames  had  leaped  up  over  the  whole  pyre,  glisten- 
ing with  wavy  yellow  and  deep  indigo,  as  though  giving 
to  the  atmosphere  the  glassy  essence  of  vitality  itself. 
Save  for  their  rustle  and  the  shrill  scream  of  a  solitary 
curlew,  wheeling  in  narrow  fearless  circles  about  the 
fiery  altar,  there  was  no  sound. 

Sitting  apart  on  the  yellow  sand,  his  eyes  on  the 
flame  quivering  upward  like  an  offering  of  orisons  and 
aspirations,  tremulous  and  radiant,  the  refrain  of  Ariel 
came  to  Gordon: 

"Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls,  that  were  his  eyes: 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade. 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

Had  Shelley  been  right?  Was  death,  for  Christian 
or  pagan,  only  a  part  of  the  inwoven  design,  glad  or 
sad,  on  that  veil  which  hides  from  us  some  high  reality  ? 
Was  Dallas — ^was  Padre  Somalian — ^nearer  right  than 
his  own  questioning  that  had  ended  in  negation?  Had 
Sheridan  found  the  girl  wife  he  longed  for — ^beyond 
the  questioning  and  the  stars?  And  was  that  serene 
soul,  whose  body  now  sifted  to  its  primal  elements, 
[walking  free  somewhere  in  a  universe  of  loving  intelli- 


S76  THE    CASTAWAY 

gence  which  to  him,  George  Gordon,  had  been  at  mosi; 
only  "The  Great  Mechanism"  ? 

At  length  he  rose.  The  group  in  the  lee  of  the  tent 
had  approached  the  pyre.  He  heard  wondering  excla- 
mations. Going  nearer,  he  saw  that  of  Shelley's  body 
there  remained  only  a  heap  of  white  ashes — and  the 
heart.    This  the  flames  had  refused  to  touch. 

He  felt  a  strange  sensation  dart  through  every  nerve. 
Trevanion  thrust  in  his  hand  and  took  it  from  the  em- 
bers. 

Gordon  turned  to  the  barouche,  where  Dallas  leaned 
back  watching,  pale  and  grave.  He  had  brought  an 
oaken  box  from  Pisa,  and  returning  with  this  to  the 
beach,  he  gathered  in  it  the  wine-soaked  ashes  and  laid 
the  heart  upon  them.  His  pulses  were  thrilling  and 
leaping  to  a  wild  man-hysteria. 

As  he  replaced  the  coffer  in  the  carriage  he  saw  Tre- 
yanion  wading  knee-deep  in  the  cool  surf.  He  settled 
the  box  between  his  knees  and  the  horses  toiled  labori- 
ously toward  the  homeward  road. 

A  sound  presently  rose  behind  them.  It  was  Tre- 
yanion,  shouting  at  the  curlew  circling  above  his  head 
' — a  wild,  savage  scream  of  laughter. 

Gordon  clenched  his  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  seat 
and  a  great  tearless  sob  broke  from  his  breast.  It  was 
the  release  of  the  tense  bow-string — ^the  scattering  of 
all  the  bottled  grief  and  horror  that  possessed  him. 

He  became  aware  after  a  time  that  Dallas  was  read- 
ing aloud.  The  latter  had  picked  up  the  blistered  copy 
of  the  "CEdipus"  and  was  translating. 

As  he  listened  to  the  flowing  lines,  a  mystical  change 
was  wrought  in  George  Gordon.    With  a  singular  ac- 


THE   CASTAWAY 


sn 


curacy  of  estimation,  his  mind  set  the  restless  cravings 
of  his  own  past  over  against  Shelley's  placid  tempera- 
ment— his  long  battle  beside  the  other's  acquiescence. 
He  had  been  the  simoon,  Shelley  the  trade-wind.  He 
had  razed,  Shelley  had  reconstructed.  His  own  doubts 
had  pointed  him — where?  Shelley  had  been  meditat- 
ing on  immortality  when  he  met  the  end. 

The  end?  Or  was  it  only  the  beginning?  ^^God,  the 
All- Just,  shall  raise  him  up  again!" — ^the  phrase  was 
running  in  his  mind  as  they  reentered  the  palace  that 
afternoon. 

Fletcher  handed  him  a  card  in  the  library. 

*'The  gentleman  came  with  Prince  Mavrocordato,^*  he 
said.  "They  wished  me  to  say  to  your  lordship  they^ 
would  return  this  evening.'' 

The  card  read : 


LIEUTENANT  EDWARD  BLAQUIERE 


The  Greek 
Revolutionary  Committee 


London 


CHAPTER  LY 

THE  CALL 

In  the  Lanfranchi  library  with  Gordon  four  men 
were  seated  in  attitudes  of  interest  and  attention.  Dal- 
las' chair  was  pushed  far  back  in  the  shadow  and  his 
hand  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  early  candles.  Opposite 
was  Count  Pietro  Gamba,  his  alert  profile  and  blond 
beard  looking  younger  than  ever  beside  the  darker 
[Asiatic  comeliness  of  Mavrocordato.  At  the  table,  a 
map  spread  before  him,  his  clean-cut,  wiry  features 
full  in  the  light,  sat  the  stranger  who  had  left  the  card 
— Lieutenant  Blaquiere,  of  London,  spokesman  of  the 
Greek  Eevolutionary  committee.  The  latter  went  oi* 
now,  with  a  certain  constrained  eagerness,  his  hand 
thrown  out  across  the  mahogany: 

^^The  standard  was  raised  when  Hypsilantes  invaded 
Wallachia  and  declared  Greece  free.  The  defeat  of  his 
ten  thousand  means  little.  The  spirit  of  the  na- 
tion is  what  counts,  and  that,  my  lord,  through  all  the 
years  of  Turkish  dominion,  has  never  died." 

For  an  hour  the  visitor  had  talked,  sketching  graph- 
ically and  succinctly  the  plans  and  hopes  of  the  revolu- 
tionists in  Greece,  the  temporary  organization  effected, 
the  other  juntas  forming,  under  the  English  commit- 
(378) 


THE   CASTAWAY  379 

iee's  leadership,  in  Germany  and  Switzerland.  He  was 
deliberate  and  impressive.  Pietro,  enthusiastic  for  the 
cause  of  his  patron,  Mavrocordato,  had  been  voluble 
with  questions.  Even  Dallas  had  asked  not  a  few.  Gor- 
don, the  host,  had  been  of  them  all  most  silent. 

He  had  felt  an  old  vision  of  his  youth  grow  instinct 
again.  Blaquiere's  words  seemed  now  not  to  be  spoken 
within  four  walls,  but  to  ring  out  of  the  distance  of 
an  uncouth  shore,  with  strange  stern  mountains  rising 
near,  a  kettle  simmering  on  a  fire  of  sticks,  and  calm 
stars  looking  down  on  a  minaretted  town. 

"The  mountains  look  on  Marathon — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 
I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free!" 

The  verse  hummed  in  his  mind.  Was  it  years  ago  he 
had  written  that  ?  Or  only  yesterday  ?  A  dream — ^that 
had  been  all !  It  had  faded  with  his  other  visions,  one 
day  when  he  had  waked  to  fame,  when  he  had  bartered 
them  for  the  bubble  of  celebrity,  the  flitter-gold  of  ad- 
miration! In  those  old  days,  he  thought  with  bitter- 
ness, he  would  have  been  an  eager  spirit  in  the  English 
movement.  Then  he  had  sat  in  Parliament;  now  he 
was  an  expatriate  adventurer,  a  disqualified  attache  of 
the  kingless  Court  of  Letters ! 

One  thing  he  still  could  do.  Revolution  needed  muni- 
tions, parks  of  artillery,  hospital  stores.  Money  could 
furnish  these — it  was  the  sinews  of  war.  If  such  were 
the  object  of  Blaquiere's  visit,  he  should  not  be  disap- 
pointed. He  possessed,  unentailed,  Newstead  Abbey, 
the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  to  whose  memory  he  had  clung 


:380  THE    CASTAWAY 

fondly  through  all  his  ostracism — and  there  were  his 
coal  lands  of  Eochdale.  The  latter  could  be  realized  on 
'without  difficulty.  His  sister  had  a  private  fortune  of 
her  own.  Ada^  his  child,  had  been  provided  for  at  her 
birth.  Eochdale  should  bring  close  upon  thirty  thou- 
^sand  pounds. 

He  spoke  to  Blaquiere: 

"Lieutenant,  Greece  had  my  earliest  songs.  She 
shall  have  what  she  can  use  to  far  better  advantage  now. 
Mr.  Dallas,  who  starts  for  London  to-morrow,  will  take 
hack  my  authority  for  the  sale  of  certain  properties 
whose  proceeds  shall  be  turned  over  to  your  committee 
ihere.^' 

Mavrocordato's  face  flushed  with  feeling.  He  turned 
his  eyes  on  Blaquiere.  A  glance  of  understanding  passed 
between  them,  and  the  latter  rose. 

"Your  lordship,*^  he  said,  "the  thanks  of  our  commit- 
i:ee  are  small  return  for  such  a  gift.  The  gratitude  of 
Oreece  will  be  an  ampler  recompense.  But — I  am 
here  to  ask  yet  more  than  this.'* 

As  Gordon  gazed  inquiringly,  he  laid  two  documents 
before  him  on  the  table : 

^'Will  your  lordship  read  ?" 

Gordon  took  up  the  first.  A  tremor  leaped  to  his 
lips.  He  saw  his  own  credentials,  signed  by  the  full 
committee  in  London,  as  their  representative — in 
Greece.  His  eye  caught  the  well-known,  cramped  chi- 
rography  of  John  Hobhouse  among  the  signatures. 

For  a  moment  his  heart  seemed  to  stop.  He  looked 
at  the  second,  glancing  at  the  names  affii?:ed:  "Alex- 
;ander  Hypsilantes'' — "Marco  Botzaris'' — a  dozen  Greek 


THE   CASTAWAY  381 

primates  and  leaders.  The  name  of  one  man  there 
present  had  been  added — Mavrocordato. 

As  he  read,  the  room  was  very  still.  The  deep  breath- 
ing of  the  men  who  waited  seemed  to  fill  it.  He  heard 
Blaquiere's  voice  piercing  through: 

"The  revolution  needs  now  only  a  supreme  leader. 
Your  lordship  is  known  and  loved  by  the  Greek  people 
as  is  no  other.  The  petty  chieftains,  whose  inveterate 
ambitions  now  embroil  a  national  cause,  for  such  a 
rallying-point  would  lay  aside  their  quarrels.  With 
your  great  name  foreign  loans  would  be  certain.  Such 
is  the  unanimous  opinion  of  the  committee  in  London, 
my  lord.'' 

Dallas'  snuff-box  dropped  to  the  floor.  Gamba  made 
a  sudden  movement,  but  Mavrocordato's  hand,  laid  on 
his  knee,  stilled  him. 

A  flush,  vivid  on  its  paleness,  had  come  to  Gordon's 
cheek — an  odd  sensation  of  confusion  that  overspread 
the  instant's  elation.  If  the  Greek  people  loved  him, 
it  was  for  what  he  had  written  years  ago,  not  for 
what  he  was  now,  a  discredited  wanderer  among  the 
nations!  With  what  real  motive  did  the  committee  in 
London  place  this  great  cause  in  his  hand?  Did  they 
offer  it  in  sincere  belief,  as  to  one  whom  England  had 
misjudged  and  to  whom  she  owed  restitution — a  lover  of 
liberty,  one  capable  of  a  true  deed,  of  judgment,  dis- 
cernment and  high  results?  A  tingling  pang  went 
through  him.  No.  But  to  one  whose  name  was  famed 
—how  famed! — whose  attachment  to  the  revolution 
would  draw  to  the  struggle  the  eyes  of  the  world, — to 
assure  foreign  loans! 

He  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  his  throat  tighten- 


382  THE   CASTAWAY 

ing.  No  one  spoke,  though  young  Gamha  stirred  rest- 
lessly. Dallas  was  peering  into  his  recovered  snuff-box, 
and  Blaquiere  sat  movelessly  watching. 

As  Gordon  looked  out  into  the  dimming  dusk  and  the 
sky's  blue  garden  blossoming  with  pale  stars,  the  new 
self  that  had  been  developing  in  conscience  gained  its 
ascendancy.  What  should  it  matter  to  him,  why  or 
how  the  opportunity  came?  To  Hobhouse,  at  least, 
it  had  been  an  act  of  faith  and  friendship.  As  a  body, 
the  committee  had  considered  only  its  object,  political 
advantage  to  England — ^the  success  of  the  Greek  revo- 
lutionary arms.  Why  should  he  ache  so  fiercely  for 
that  juster  valuation  which  would  never  be  given? 
Was  it  not  enough  that  the  cause  was  one  which  had 
been  the  brightest  dream  of  his  youth ;  that  sober  opin- 
ion deemed  his  effort  able  to  advance  it? 

His  mind  overran  the  past  years.  He  saw  himself 
putting  away  the  old  savage  indifference  and  insolent 
disdain,  and  struggling  for  a  fresh  foothold  on  life. 
The  malice  that  had  pursued  him  in  Trevanion  he  had 
accepted  unresistingly,  as  part  of  an  ordained  necessity. 
But  with  the  unfolding  of  the  new  conception  and  char- 
acter he  had  come  to  realize  that,  as  the  most  inti- 
mate elements  of  his  own  destruction  had  lain  within 
himself,  so  only  to  himself  could  he  look  for  self-re- 
trieval. 

And  was  that  retrieval  to  be  found  in  the  fatu- 
ous passiveness  behind  which  he  had  intrenched  him- 
self? If  there  were  an  appointed  destiny,  it  could  not 
lie  that  way,  but  rather  in  the  meeting  of  the  issues  fate 
offered,  the  doing  of  a  worthy  deed  for  the  deed's  own 
sake,  the  making  real  of  an  heroic  dream — putting  aside 


THE   CASTAWAY  383 

the  paltry  pride  that  cavilled  how  or  why  that  issue  was 
presented — without  reckoning  save  of  the  final  outcome. 

He  thought  of  an  oaken  box  now  on  its  way  to  a  cem- 
etery in  Eome.  What  would  the  man  whose  ashes  it 
held  have  replied  ?    He  needed  no  answer  to  that ! 

As  he  pondered,  from  the  shadowy  garden,  under  the 
orange  trees  woven  with  the  warm  scents  of  summer, 
rose  a  soft  strain.  It  was  Teresa,  singing  to  her  harp, 
her  voice  burdened  to-night  with  the  grief  of  Mary 
Shelley — ^the  song  Gordon  had  long  ago  written  to  a 
plaintive  Hindoo  refrain. 

Low  as  the  words  were,  they  came  clearly  into  the 
silence : 

"Oh !  — my  lonely — ^lonely — ^lonely — Pillow ! 
Where  is  my  lover?  Where  is  my  lover? 
Is  it  his  bark  which  my  dreary  dreams  discover? 
Far — far  away!  and  alone  along  the  hillow? 

Oh!  my  lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow! 
Why  must  my  head  ache  where  his  gentle  brow  lay? 
How  the  long  night  flags  lovelessly  and  slowly, 

And  my  head  droops  over  thee  like  the  willow!" 

Gordon's  gaze  had  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  He  could  see  her  sitting  in  her  favorite  spot, 
her  hair  a  dusk  of  starlight,  leaning  to  her  harp.  If 
ehe  only  had  not  sung  that — now ! 

*1  do  not  ask  a  hasty  answer,'^ — ^Blaquiere  was  speak- 
ing again, — "it  is  not  a  light  proposal.  Your  lordship 
will  wish  time — " 

The  man  to  whom  he  spoke  put  out  his  hand  with  a 
Budden  gesture.    "Wait,^'  he  said. 

What  need  of  time  ?   Would  &  ^ay,  a  week,  make  him 


384  THE   CASTAWAY 

more  able?  Through  the  turmoil  of  new  emotions  he 
reasoned  swiftly. 

There  were  two  to  consider:  the  woman  he  loved, 
whose  singing  voice  he  heard,  and  Ada,  his  child.  If 
for  Teresa's  happiness  he  put  aside  this  call,  what 
then?  A  continuance  of  life  in  this  fond  refuge  he 
had  found  here  in  Italy — in  time,  peace  and  quiet, 
perhaps.  But  a  happiness  cankered  for  them  both  by 
the  recollection  of  what  he  might  have  done,  but  would 
not.  And  for  Ada?  The  knowledge  that  he  had  once 
failed  a  supreme  cause. 

The  song  rose  again.  Pietro  Gamba's  face  turned 
suddenly  tender. 

"Oh!  thou,  my  sad  and  solitary  RUow! 
Send  me  kind  dreams  to  keep  my  heart  from  breaking. 
In  return  for  the  tears  I  shed  upon  thee  waking; 
Let  me  not  die  till  he  comes  hack  o'er  the  billow!" 

If  he  went^ — and  did  not  return. 

To  die  worthily,  for  a  great  cause — ^though  he  be  but 
ono  of  the  many  waves  that  break  upon  the  shore  before 
the  tide  can  reach  its  mark.  To  forward  the  splendid 
march  of  freedom  against  the  barbarian.  To  lead 
Greece  toward  its  promised  land,  even  though  he  him- 
self be,  like  Moses,  destined  to  see  it  but  afar  off.  The 
world  could  sneer  or  praise,  as  it  chose.  It  might  at- 
tribute to  him  the  highest  motives  or  the  most  vain- 
glorious. Some  time  it  would  understand.  It  would 
have  his  Memoirs,  his  final  bequest  to  Ada. 

He  thought  of  a  picture  in  England,  hidden  behind 
a  curtain  lest  his  daughter  should  grow  up  to  know  the 
features  of  her  father,    '^y  their  deeds  ye  shall  know 


THE   CASTAWAY  385 

them" — ^the  saying  possessed  him.  Far  kinder  his  going 
for  her  memory  of  him ! 

Better  for  Teresa.  Her  brother  remained  to  care 
for  her.  She  had  in  her  own  right  only  the  dowry 
returned  to  her  from  the  Guiecioli  coffers  with  her 
papal  separation.  But  by  selling  Newstead  Abbey — 
Dallas  could  arrange  that — ^he  could  put  her  beyond 
the  reach  of  want  forever.  Better  far  for  her!  In 
her  recollection  it  would  cover  the  stain  of  that  life  in 
Venice  from  which  her  hand  had  drawn  him,  and  leave 
her  love  a  higher,  nobler  thing. 

He  lifted  his  head  suddenly  and  addressed  Blaquiere; 

**I  will  go"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  LVl 

THE  FAREWELL 

In  the  garden  the  roses  were  as  fragrant,  the 
orange  trees  as  spicy-sweet  as  ever,  every  sound  and 
scent  as  in  so  many  evenings  past.  Yet  Teresa's  eyes 
were  heavy,  her  heart  like  lead  within  her  breast. 

Since  the  hour  she  had  sung  to  her  harp — it  lay  beside 
her  now — ^when  Gordon  had  found  her  there  and  tcld 
her  the  outcome  of  that  library  conference  in  which  she 
had  had  no  part,  it  seemed  as  though  dreary  decades  had 
passed.  She  had  lain  in  his  arms  at  first  breathless, 
stricken  with  a  weight  of  voiceless  grief,  while  he 
spoke,  hopefully,  calmly,  of  the  cause  and  his  determi- 
nation. The  great  cry  into  which  her  agony  bled  at 
length  had  gripped  his  soul.  She  had  felt  his  heart  leap 
and  quiver  against  her,  shaken  with  her  sobs,  and  knew 
he  suffered  with  her  in  every  pang.  It  was  a  reali- 
zation of  this  that  had  finally  given  her  self-control  and 
a  kind  of  calmness. 

In  the  time  that  followed:  weeks  of  preparation, 
correspondence  with  the  Revolutionary  Committees  and 
with  Mavrocordato,  who  had  preceded  Gordon  to  Greece, 
selection  of  stores,  the  chartering  and  freighting  of  the 
brig  Hercules  at  Genoa — all  the  minutiae  that  visual- 
(386) 


THE   CASTAWAY  387 

ized  the  departure  that  must  come — ^the  two  sides  of 
her  love  had  struggled  together. 

Sometimes  the  smaller,  the  less  unselfish  personal 
passion,  gained  temporary  mastery.  What  was  she  to 
him  if  she  were  not  more  than  everything  else?  What 
was  Greece  to  her  ?  Once  he  had  said  that  all  he  should 
ever  write  would  spring  from  her  love.  Was  that  love 
fit  only  to  inspire  poems  upon  paper  ?  Now  he  left  her 
and  forsook  that  love  to  go  to  a  useless  danger — and  she 
had  given  him  all!  The  thought  sobbed  in  her.  She 
was  a  woman,  and  she  struggled  with  a  woman's  an- 
guish. 

Then  her  greater  soul  would  conquer.  She  would 
remember  that  night  on  the  square  in  Venice,  the 
glimpse  of  his  tortured  self -amendment  at  San  Lazzarro, 
and  the  calmer  strength  she  had  felt  growing  in  him 
from  the  day  their  lips  met  on  the  convent  hill.  Her 
instinct  told  her  this  determination  of  his  was  only  a* 
further  step  in  that  soul-growth  whose  first  strivings 
she  had  herself  awakened.  This  gave  her  a  melancholy 
comfort  that  was  sometimes  almost  joy.  In  his  face 
of  late  she  had  distinguished  something  subtle  and 
significant,  that  carried  her  back  to  the  night  she  had 
left  his  book  at  the  feet  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows.  It 
was  the  veiled  look  she  had  then  imagined  the  object 
of  her  petition,  the  fallen  angel  sorrowing  for  his  lost 
estate,  would  wear — ^the  patience  and  martyrdom  of 
renunciation. 

These  struggles  of  hers  had  been  the  ultimate  re- 
vealment,  as  the  hour  she  had  held  Gordon's  bleeding 
body  in  her  arms  had  been  life's  primal  comprehension. 
That  had  shown  her  love's  heights  and  depths;  this 


388  THE   CASTAWAY 

taught  her  all  its  breadth,  its  capacity  for  self-abnega- 
tion, its  wild,  unselfish  yearning  for  the  best  good  of 
the  thing  beloved. 

As  she  and  Fletcher  prepared  the  bare  necessitiea 
he  was  to  take  with  him,  his  buried  London  life  had 
risen  before  her.  The  woman  who  should  have  loved 
him  most — ^his  wife — ^had  sent  him  into  a  cruel  ostra- 
cism, hating  and  despising  him.  She  whom  the  law's 
decree  forbade  that  he  should  love,  was  sending  him 
away,  too,  but  to  a  noble  cause  and  with  a  breaking 
heart.  She  had  made  his  present  better  than  his  past. 
Should  not  his  future  be  even  more  to  her  than  the 
present  ? 

AH  had  at  last  been  put  in  readiness.  Waiting  the 
conversion  of  his  English  properties,  Gordon  had  util- 
ized all  his  Italian  funds.  Ammunition,  horses  from 
his  own  stable,  field-guns  and  medicines  for  a  year's 
campaign  had  been  loaded  under  his  tireless  super- 
vision. Lastly,  he  had  taken  abgard  with  his  own 
hands  ten  thousand  crowns  in  specie  and  forty  thousand 
in  bills  of  exchange.  Four  days  before,  with  himself 
and  Fletcher  aboard,  the  brig  had  sailed  from  Genoa, 
whence  swift  couriers  had  daily  brought  Teresa  news, 
for  he  had  small  time  for  pen  work.  To-day  the  ves- 
sel had  cast  anchor  at  Leghorn,  her  final  stop,  only  a 
few  hours  away.  To-night,  since  she  put  to  sea  with  the 
dawn-tide,  Gordon  was  to  come  for  a  last  farewell. 

As  Teresa  sat  waiting  in  the  garden,  she  tried  not 
to  think  of  the  to-morrow,  the  empty,  innumerable 
to-morrows.  It  was  already  quite  dark,  for  there  waa 
no  moon ;  she  was  thankful  for  this,  for  he  could  not  so 
readily  see  her  pallor.    He  should  carry  away  a  re- 


THE   CASTAWAY  389 

collection  of  hope  and  cheerfulness,  not  of  agony  or 
tears.  With  a  memory  of  what  she  had  been  singing  the 
night  of  Blaquiere's  coming,  she  lifted  her  harp  and  be- 
gan softly  and  bravely,  her  fingers  finding  their  way  on 
the  strings  by  touch : 

"Then  if  thou  wilt— no  more  my  lonely  Pillow, 
In  one  embrace  let  these  arms  again  enfold  him. 
And  then  expire  of  the  joy — hut  to  behold  him! 
Oh!  my  lone  bosom! — oh! — my  lonely  Pillow!" 

The  effort  was  too  great.  The  harp  rebounded 
against  the  ground.  She  bowed  her  head  on  the  arm 
of  the  bench  and  burst  into  sobbing. 

The  twang  of  the  fallen  harp  called  loudly  to  one 
whose  hand  was  on  the  postern  gate  while  he  listened. 
He  came  swiftly  through  the  dark. 

She  felt  his  arms  close  about  her,  her  face,  torn  with 
crying,  pressed  against  his  breast.  So  he  held  hor  till 
the  vehemence  of  her  weeping  stilled,  and  her  emotion 
appeared  only  in  long  convulsive  breaths,  like  a  child's 
after  a  paroxysm  of  grief. 

AVhen  Gordon  spoke,  it  was  to  tell  of  sanguine  news 
from  the  English  Committee,  of  the  application  of 
French  and  German  officers  to  serve  under  him,  cheer- 
ful detail  that  calmed  her. 

A  long  pause  ensued.  "What  are  you  thinking?'' 
he  asked  at  length. 

She  answered,  her  eyes  closed,  a  mere  murmur  in  his 
ear:  "Of  the  evening  you  came  to  the  garden  at  Ea- 
venna.'' 

"It  was  moonlight,''  he  replied. 


390  THE    CASTAWAY 

'TTou  kissed  a  cnrl  of  my  hair/'  she  whispered.  '1 
slept  with  it  across  my  lips  that  night/' 

He  hent  and  kissed  her  eyelids,  her  mouth,  her  fragile 
fingers.    "My  love  V  he  exclaimed. 

"I  wanted  to  be  strong  to-night/'  she  said  piteously. 

*^Yoii  are  strong  and  brave,  too !  Do  I  not  know  how 
you  brought  me  to  the  casa — ^how  you  drank  the  man- 
dragora  ?" 

She  shivered.  *'0h,  if  it  were  nothing  but  a  potion 
to-night — ^to  drink,  and  to  wake  in  your  arms  I  Now  I 
shall  wake  alone,  and  you — '' 

"I  shall  be  always  with  you,"  he  answered,  ^^y  day, 
on  the  sea  or  in  the  camp.  At  night  I  shall  wander 
with  you  among  the  stars." 

"I  shall  ask  the  Virgin  to  watch  over  you.  Every 
hour  I  shall  pray  to  God  to  have  you  in  His  keeping,  and 
to  guard  you  from  danger." 

His  arms  tightened.  He  seemed  to  hear  a  chanted 
litany  climbing  a  marble  staircase: 

"From  lightning  and  tempest;  from  plague,  pesti- 
lence, and  famine;  from  battle  and  murder,  and  from 
sudden  death ; 

'^Oood  Lord,  deliver  us,'^ 

Had  he  ever  prayed?  Kot  to  the  God  of  the  ortho- 
dox Cassidy,  of  the  stern  ecclesiastics  who  had  in- 
veighed against  him.  Not  to  the  beneficent  Father  that 
Dallas  and  Padre  Somalian  believed  in.  Never  in  his 
life  had  he  voiced  a  petition  to  a  higher  power.  All  he 
had  known  was  that  agnostic  casuistry  of  his  youth, 
''The  Unknown  God" — ^that  fatalistic  impersonality  of 


THE    CASTAWAY  391 

his  later  career,  "The  Great  Mechanism."  He  thought 
of  lines  Teresa's  hand  had  penned,  that  since  a  gray 
dawn  when  he  read  and  re-read  them  to  the  chuckling 
of  a  fiend  within  him  had  never  left  his  breast.  They 
had  opened  a  spiritual  chasm  that  was  ever  widening 
between  the  old  and  the  new. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "I  would  not  exchange  a  prayer 
of  yours  for  all  else  life  could  give.  You  prayed  for 
me  before  you  ever  saw  me,  when  others  gave  me  bitter- 
ness and  revilings." 

^TTou  never  deserved  that !" 

'TTou  forgave  because  you  loved,"  he  answered  gently. 
"Your  love  has  been  around  me  ever  since.  I  was  un- 
worthy of  it  then — I  am  unworthy  now." 

"England  never  knew  you,"  she  protested,  "as  I  know 
you.  Your  soul  is  good !  Whatever  your  acts,  I  know 
it  has  always  been  so !" 

He  sighed.  "My  soul  was  full  of  glorious  dreams, 
once — ^this  dream  of  Greece's  freedom  was  its  dearest. 
But  they  were  tainted  with  regnant  passion  and  foolish 
pride  and  ingrain  recklessness.  When  the  world  flat- 
tered me,  I  threw  away  all  that  could  have  helped  me 
rise.  I  sold  my  birthright  for  its  mess  of  pottage.  When 
it  turned,  I  scoffed  and  hated  it  and  plunged  further 
away  from  all  that  was  worthy.  Men  do  more  harm  to 
themselves  than  ever  the  devil  could  do  them.  I  sunk 
my  soul  deeper  and  deeper  in  the  mire — ^because  I  did 
not  care,  because  I  had  nothing  and  no  one  to  care  for — 
till  you  found  me,  Teresa,  that  day  in  the  wood  at  La 
Mira!  You  pointed  me  to  myself,  to  all  I  might  and 
should  have  been.  You  taught  me  first  remorse,  then 
the  idle  indolence  of  regret ;  now,  at  last,  the  wish  to  do, 


392  THE   CASTAWAY 

to  be!  Neither  success  nor  failure,  praise  nor  scorn, 
could  do  this.  If  there  is  anything  good  in  me  now,  it 
is  because  of  that,  Teresa !  If  the  future  ever  forgets  to 
know  me  as  wicked  and  wastrel,  and  remembers  better 
things  I  have  done  or  tried  to  do — " 

'^ou  are  the  noblest  man  in  the  world !" 

A  quick  spasm  crossed  his  face  in  the  darkness. 
Noble!  Yet  how  little  popular  esteem  seemed  to  him 
at  that  moment!  He  went  on  hurriedly,  for  what  he 
had  to  say  must  be  in  few  words : 

''Always — ^whatever  happens — ^you  will  remember 
what  I  have  said,  Teresa  T' 

Whatever  hap^.  ns!  She  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  mute  with  the  anguish  that  was  fighting  with  her 
resolution. 

'' — ^that  you  are  all  to  me.  That  I  love  you — ^you  only ; 
that  I  shall  love  you  to  the  end." 

"If  I  forgot  that,  I  could  not  live!''  she  said 
chokingly. 

The  great  clock  struck  ponderously  from  the  palace 
hall — a  clamorous  reminder  that  he  must  hasten,  for 
the  night  was  almost  without  a  star,  and  a  wreathing 
nebulous  mist  forbade  rapid  riding.  Through  all  his 
preparations  this  hour  had  reared  as  the  last  harbor- 
light  of  home.  It  had  come  and  gone  like  a  breath  on 
glass.  In  the  still  night  the  chime  sounded  like  a  far 
spired  bell.  Some  banal  freak  of  memory  brought  to 
Gordon's  mind  the  old  church  dial  jutting  over  Fleet 
Street  in  London,  and  the  wooden  wild  men  which  had 
struck  the  hour  with  their  clubs  as  he  issued  from  John 
Murray's  shop  the  night  of  his  maiden  speech  in  Par* 
liament. 


THE    CASTAWAY  393 

The  strokes  counted  twelve — midnight.  She  shud- 
dered as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"My  love — ^my  life  I"  he  said,  and  clasped  her  close. 

"God  keep  you  \"  she  breathed. 

He  left  her  and  went  a  few  steps  into  the  darkness. 
She  thought  him  gone.  But  he  came  back  swiftly,  his 
hands  groping. 

He  heard  a  shuddering  sob  tear  its  way  from  her 
heart,  but  she  stood  motionless  in  his  arms^  her  cheek 
grown  suddenly  cold  against  his  own. 

In  that  moment  a  strange  feeling  had  come  to  her 
that  they  clasped  each  other  now  for  the  last  time.  It 
was  as  though  an  icy  hand  were  pressed  upon  her  heart, 
stilling  its  pulsations. 

She  felt  his  arms  again  release  her  and  knew  she  was 
alone. 

It  lacked  an  hour  of  day  when  Gordon  rode  into  Leg- 
horn, and  the  first  streak  of  dawn  strove  vainly  to  shred 
the  curdled  mist  as  he  stepped  from  a  lighter  aboard  the 
Hercules.  The  tide  was  at  full  and  a  rising  breeze 
flapped  the  canvas. 

Standing  apart  on  her  deck,  his  mind  abstracted, 
though  his  ears  were  humming  with  the  profane  noises 
of  creaking  cordage,  windlass  and  capstan,  he  felt  as  if 
the  fall  of  the  headsman's  ax  had  divided  his  soul  in  two. 
He  saw  his  past  rolled  up  like  a  useless  palimpsest  in 
the  giant  hand  of  destiny — his  future  an  unvexed  scroll 
laid  waiting  for  mystic  characters  yet  unformed  and  un- 
imagined.  Beneath  the  bitterness  of  parting,  he  felt, 
strangely  enough,  a  kind  of  peace  wider  than  he  had 


394  THE    CASTAWAY 

ever  known.  The  hatred  that  tracked,  the  Nemesis  that 
had  harassed,  he  left  behind  him. 

Absorbed  in  his  reflections,  he  did  not  hear  the 
bawled  orders  of  the  ship's  mate,  nor  the  spitting 
crackle  of  musketry  from  some  ship's  hulk  near  by  in 
the  foggy  smother.  The  brig  was  lifting  and  pushing  as 
she  gained  headway.  The  captain  spoke  at  his  elbow. 

^'Begging  your  lordship's  pardon,  a  man  has  just 
come  aboard  by  the  ship's  bow-chains.  He  had  a  tough 
swim  for  it  and  a  bullet  through  the  forearm.  Says  he 
was  shanghaied  by  the  Pylades.  If  we  put  about,  we'll 
lose  the  tide.    What  are  your  lordship's  orders?" 

'as  he  Italian?" 

''No,  sir.  He  says  he's  an  Englishman,  but  he  looks 
Lascar." 

"His  name  ?"  the  demand  fell  sharply. 

"Trevanion,  your  lordship." 

As  Gordon  stood  there,  breathing  deeply,  Teresa,  at 
home  in  her  room,  stretched  at  the  foot  of  the  crucifix, 
was  crying  in  a  voice  of  anguish,  that  icy  hand  still 
pressed  upon  her  heart :  "0  God !  help  me  to  remember 
that  it  is  for  Greece !  and  for  himself  most  of  all !  Help 
me  not  to  forget — ^not  to  forget !" 

For  only  an  instant  Gordon  hesitated.  'Tjet  him 
stay,"  he  said  then  to  the  captain,  and  turned  away  to 
his  cabin. 


CHAPTER  LVII 

THE  MAN"  IN  THE  BED  UNIFORM 

From  a  vessel  lying  beyond  the  shallows  that  stretched 
three  miles  from  the  Greek  shore,  a  puff  of  smoke  broke 
balloon-like,  to  be  followed,  a  moment  after,  by  a  muf- 
fled report. 

The  crowds  of  people  clustered  along  the  town's  front 
cheered  wildly.  Every  day  for  weeks  they  had  been 
watching:  blue-eyed,  dusky  Albanians,  with  horse-hair 
capotes  and  pistoled  girdles ;  supple  lighter  complexioned 
Greeks  in  the  national  kirtle;  Suliotes,  whose  moun- 
tain wildnesses  were  reflected  in  their  dress ;  and  a  mis- 
cellaneous mixture  of  citizens  of  every  rank  and  age. 

For  this  vessel  bore  the  coming  savior  of  the  Grecian 
nation,  the  great  English  peer  whose  songs  for  years 
had  been  sung  in  their  own  Eomaic  tongue,  whose  com- 
ing had  been  prated  of  so  long  by  their  primates — ^he 
who  should  make  them  victorious  against  the  Turk. 
Was  it  not  he  who,  in  Cephalonia,  on  his  way  hither, 
had  fed  from  his  own  purse  the  flying  refugees  from 
Scio  and  Patras,  and  sent  them  back  with  arms  in  their 
hands?  Was  he  not  the  friend  of  their  own  Prince 
Mavrocordato,  who  in  this  same  stronghold  of  Misso- 
longhi  had  fought  off  Omer  Pasha  with  his  twenty 
thousand  troops,  and  now  controlled  the  provisional 
government  of  Western  Greece?  Was  it  not  he  who  had 
sent  two  hundred  thousand  piastres  to  outfit  the  fleet 
(395)        ^ 


396  THE    CASTAWAY 

before  wliose  approach  Yussuff  Pasha's  squadron  had 
withdrawn  sullenly  to  Lepanto  ? 

They  had  known  of  Gordon's  departure  from  Cepha- 
lonia  from  the  forty  Mariotes  he  sent  ahead  to  be  his  own 
body-guard,  and  who  strutted  it  about  the  fortifications, 
boasting  of  the  distinction.  His  consort  vessel  had  ar- 
rived, after  narrowly  escaping  capture.  His  own  brig, 
chased  by  the  Turks,  had  been  driven  on  the  rocky  coast. 
This  they  had  learned  from  a  surly  Arab-like  English- 
man, his  arm  in  a  sling  from  an  unhealed  bullet-wound, 
who  had  been  in  the  vessel  and  had  found  a  footsore 
way  overland. 

The  metropolitan  had  called  a  special  service  in  the 
church  for  his  lordship's  deliverance.  Now  his  ship, 
escaping  rocks  and  the  enemy,  had  anchored  safely  in 
the  night,  and  the  roar  of  salutes  from  the  Speziot 
brigs-of-war  that  lay  in  the  harbor  had  waked  the  sleep- 
ing port.  Since  daylight  the  shore  had  been  a  moving 
mass,  sprinkled  with  brilliant  figures:  soldiery  of  for- 
tune, wearing  the  uniform  of  well-nigh  every  European 
nation. 

There  was  one  who  watched  that  pushing,  staring 
multitude  who  did  not  rejoice.  As  he  listened  to  the 
timiult  of  gladness,  Trevanion's  heart  was  a  fiery  fur- 
nace. His  hatred,  fostered  so  long,  was  the  ^'be-all  and 
end-all"  of  his  moody  existence,  and  the  benefit  Gordon 
had  conferred  when  he  delivered  him  from  Cassid/s 
marines,  had  become  at  length  insupportable.  With  a 
perversion  of  reasoning  characteristically  Asiatic,  he  had 
chosen  to  wipe  it  from  the  slate  and  make  the  favor 
naught.  He  went  to  Leghorn  and  to  the  amaze  of  Oas- 
gidy,  surrendered  himself  to  the  Pylades. 


THE   CASTAWAY  397 

This  voluntary  act,  perhaps,  made  vigilance  lighter. 
He  watched  his  chance,  leaped  overboard  in  the  foggy 
morning,  and  would  have  got  safe  to  shore  but  for  one 
well-aimed  musket.  Chance  put  the  departing  brig  in 
his  way.  He  had  been  delirious  in  the  forecastle  for 
days  from  his  wound,  and  knowledge  of  Gordon's  pres- 
ence and  mission  had  not  come  to  him  till  the  Grecian 
shore  was  in  sight. 

In  his  durance  on  the  Pylades  his  hair  and  beard  had 
grown ;  he  fancied  himself  unrecognized.  Hour  by  hour, 
watching  Gordon  covertly,  seeiag  him  living  and  sleep- 
ing on  deck  in  all  weathers,  eating  the  coarse  fare  and 
enduring  every  privation  of  his  sailors,  Trevanion's 
blood  inflamed  itself  still  more.  He  owed  the  other 
nothing  now !  He  raged  withia  himself  at  the  celebrity 
the  expedition  and  its  leader  acquired  at  Cephalonia. 
In  the  pursuit  of  Gordon's  vessel  by  the  Turks  he  had 
hoped  for  its  capture.  When  she  ran  upon  the  rocks 
he  deemed  this  certain,  and  forsook  her  jubilantly. 
He  had  no  fear  of  making  his  way  afoot  to  Missolonghi  ; 
strangely  enough,  years  before,  during  the  Feast  of 
Eamazan,  he  had  fled  over  this  same  path  to  escape  a 
Mohammedan  vengeance,  and  pursued  by  the  memory 
of  a  Greek  girl  abandoned  to  the  last  dreadful  penalty 
because  of  him — a  memory  that  haunted  him  still. 

To-day,  as  Trevanion  saw  the  vessel  that  held  his 
enemy,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  sinister  regard. 

"Bah!''  sneered  a  voice  behind  him  in  the  Romaic 
tongue.  "An  English  noble !  Who  says  so  ?  Mavrocor- 
dato.  There  are  those  who  say  he  is  a  Turk  in  disguise 
who  will  sell  the  country  to  the  sultan." 


398  THE    CASTAWAY 

The  man  who  had  spoken  wore  the  dress  of  a  chieftain 
of  lower  rank.    His  comrade  answered  with  an  oath : 

''Or  to  the  English.  Kalon  malubdi!  Give  me  a 
chief  like  Ulysses !  In  six  months  he  would  have  gained 
the  whole  Peloponnesus,  but  for  the  coming  of  this  for- 
eigner— ^may  a  good  ball  find  him  V 

To  Trevanion  the  malediction  was  as  grateful  as  a 
draft  of  cool  beer  to  the  scorched  palate  of  a  waking  sot. 
He  spoke  in  the  vernacular:  "There  are  English,  too, 
who  would  drink  that  toast !  Who  is  Ulysses  T' 

His  faded  sailor's  rig  had  been  misleading.  Both 
clapped  hands  to  their  belts  as,  "One  who  will  sweep  this 
puppet  of  Mavrocordato's  into  the  gulf!''  the  first  re- 
plied fiercely. 

"May  I  be  there  to  help !"  exclaimed  Trevanion,  sav- 
agely.   ^'Take  me  to  this  leader  of  yours !" 

The  two  Suliotes  looked  at  him  narrowly,  then  con- 
ferred.   At  length  the  chief  came  closer. 

"If  you  would  serve  Ulysses,"  he  said,  "meet  me  be- 
yond the  north  fortifications  at  sunset." 

Trevanion  nodded,  and  they  turned  away,  as  a  shout 
went  up  from  the  assembled  people.  A  boat  had  swung 
out  from  the  brig's  davits.  It  carried  a  flag — a  white 
cross  on  a  blue  ground — the  standard  of  New  Greece. 

The  man  with  the  disabled  arm  flushed  suddenly,  for 
his  dark,  sullen  gaze  had  fallen  on  the  sea-wall,  where 
stood  His  Highness,  Prince  Mavrocordato,  with  Pietro 
Gamba.  The  latter  had  followed  Gordon  to  Cephalonia 
and  from  there  had  come  on  the  Hercules'  consort.  A 
slinking  shame  bit  Trevanion  as  he  recalled  the  day 
when  his  poisoned  whisper  would  have  fired  that  young 


THE    CASTAWAY  39^ 

heart  to  murder;  he  wheeled  and  plunged  into  the  hu- 
man surge. 

The  couple  on  the  sea-wall  watched  eagerly.  The  low- 
ered boat  had  been  rapidly  manned.  A  figure  wearing 
a  scarlet  uniform  took  its  place  in  the  stern-sheets.  The 
crowd  buzzed  and  dilated. 

The  prince  lowered  his  field-glass.  "Thank  God,  he 
is  safe!''  he  exclaimed  in  earnest  Italian.  "We  have 
been  in  desperate  straits,  Pietro.  With  the  General  As- 
sembly preparing  to  meet,  when  all  the  western  country 
is  in  such  disorder,  with  these  untamed  mountain  chiefs 
flocking  here  with  their  clans,  with  Botzaris  killed  in 
battle,  and  only  my  paltry  five  thousand  to  keep  dis- 
sensions in  check,  I  have  been  prepared  for  the  worst. 
Now  there  is  hope.    Look !'' 

He  stretched  his  hand  toward  the  teeming  quay. 
"They  have  waited  for  him  as  for  the  Messiah.  All  the 
chiefs,  except  Ulysses,  who  has  always  plotted  for  con- 
trol— and  his  spies  are  in  the  town  at  this  moment ! — 
will  defer  to  him.  With  a  united  front  what  could 
Greece  not  do!  The  Turk  could  never  enslave  her 
again.  With  no  supreme  head,  her  provinces  are  like 
the  untied  bundle  of  sticks — easily  broken  one  at  a 
time  V 

They  watched  in  silence  while  the  rowers  drew  nearer 
across  the  shallows. 

"I  did  not  hope  to  see  you  here,  Pietro,''  Mavrocor- 
dato  said  affectionately,  as  they  started  toward-  head- 
quarters. 

Gamba  answered  simply:  "She  sent  me — ^to  guard 
him  if  I  could." 

Ten  minutes  more  and  the  boat  was  at  the  landing. 


400  THE    CASTAWAY 

The  instant  its  bow  touched  the  masonry  before  linew 
of  picked  troops,  a  single  bell  rang  out  from  the  Greek 
church.  Other  iron  tongues  took  it  up.  The  walls 
shook  with  rolling  salvos  of  artillery,  the  firing  of  mus- 
kets and  wild  music,  as  the  man  in  the  scarlet  uniform, 
colorless  and  strangely  composed  amid  the  tossing  agi- 
tation, stepped  on  shore  to  grasp  the  hand  of  Prince 
Mavrocordato,  standing  with  a  long  suite  of  European 
and  Greek  officers. 

As  his  gaze  swept  over  the  massed  soldiery,  the  frantic 
people,  the  women  on  roofs  and  balconies,  the  houses 
hung  with  waving  carpets, — a  rainbow  motley  of  color, 
— a  great  shout  rolled  along  the  embankments,  a  tu- 
mult mingled  with  hand-clapping  like  a  silver  rain,  that 
drowned  all  words.  Women  in  the  multitude  sobbed, 
and  on  the  balconies  little  children  were  held  up  in 
stronger  arms  to  see  their  deliverer.  Every  eye  was  on 
that  central  figure,  with  face  like  the  Apollo  Belvedere 
and  a  step  that  halted  as  if  with  fatigue,  but  with  a  look 
clear  and  luminous  and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  moulding 
his  lips. 

"Panayeia  keep  him !"  sobbed  a  weeping  woman,  and 
threw  herself  between  the  lines  of  soldiers  to  kiss  the 
tassel  of  his  sword. 

The  metropolitan,  his  robes  trailing  the  ground,  lifted 
before  him  a  silver  eilcon  glittering  in  the  sun. 

The  soldiers  presented  arms. 

The  bells  broke  forth  again,  and  amid  their  jubilant 
ringing  the  wearer  of  the  red  uniform  passed  slowly, 
with  Prince  Mavrocordato  by  his  side,  into  the  stone 
building  which  rose  above  the  quay — ^the  military  head- 
quarters of  the  revolutionary  forces  of  Western  Greece. 


CHAPTEK  LYIII 

THE  ARCHISTEATEG03 

Missolonghi  had  become  the  center  of  European  at- 
tention. The  announcement  of  the  English  Committee 
which  followed  Blaquiere's  return  to  England  was  on 
every  tongue. 

The  Courier  had  printed  a  single  sneering  paragraph 
in  which  had  been  compressed  the  rancor  of  William 
Godwin,  the  bookseller.  This  stated  that  Greorge  Gor- 
don was  not  even  in  Greece,  that  he  was  in  reality  living 
in  a  sumptuous  villa  on  one  of  the  Ionian  Islands,  with 
the  Contessa  Guiccioli,  writing  a  companion  poem  to 
'Don  Juan.^'  But  before  the  stringent  disapproval  with 
which  this  bald  fabrication  was  received,  the  Courier 
slunk  to  shamefaced  silence. 

Thereafter,  in  the  columns  of  newspaper,  pamphlet 
and  magazine,  there  was  to  be  distinguished  a  curious 
tension  of  reserve.  It  was  the  journalistic  obeisance  to  a 
growing  subterranean  yet  potent  revulsion  of  feeling. 
Dallas  had  soon  found  himself  the  recipient  of  invita- 
tions from  influential  hosts  desirous  to  hear  of  his 
visit  to  Italy.  In  the  clubs  the  committee's  bulletins 
were  eagerly  discussed.  The  loan  it  solicited  found 
subscriptions  and  the  struggle  of  the  Cross  with  the 
Crescent — ^the  cause  whose  beating  heart  was  now  Mis- 

(401) 


402  THE    CASTAWAY 

solonghi — ^began  to  draw  the  eyes  not  of  London  but  of 
England ;  not  of  England  but  of  Europe ;  not  of  Europe 
but  of  the  world. 

To  the  company  gathered  in  the  citadel  of  this  little 
marshy  port  on  the  Greek  sea-shallows,  where  freedom 
stirred  in  the  womb  of  war,  outer  comment  came  only 
after  multiplied  reverberations.  They  toiled  ceaselessly 
— a  nucleus  of  hard-working  general  oflBcers  culled  from 
everywhere — planning,  drilling,  gathering  stores,  pre- 
paring for  the  inevitable  attack  of  the  Turkish  armies 
massing  at  Lepanto,  trying  to  knit  into  organization 
the  tawdry  elements  of  brigandage  to  which  centuries  of 
Turkish  subjection  had  reduced  a  great  nation.  They 
labored  under  a  single  far-sighted  leadership :  that  of  the 
arcMstrategos  of  the  Greek  forces,  whose  eye  seemed 
sleepless  and  his  brain  indefatigable. 

Gordon  foresaw  that  Greece^s  greatest  enemy  was  not 
the  Turks,  but  her  own  dissensions.  Unification  of  spirit 
and  authority  was  necessary  before  all.  When  Ulysses, 
the  recalcitrant,  sent  him  an  obsequious  embassy  it  bore 
back  a  terse  answer:  "I  come  to  aid  a  nation,  not  a 
faction.'^  Ulysses  cursed  in  his  beard  and  sent  Trevan- 
ion,  for  whom  he  had  found  more  than  one  cunning 
use,  to  seduce  the  Suliote  forces  camped  within  the  in- 
surgent lines. 

Meanwhile,  the  money  Gordon  had  brought  melt- 
ed rapidly.  He  had  contributed  four  hundred  pounds 
a  week  for  rations  alone,  besides  supporting  batteries, 
laboratories  and  an  entire  brigade,  settling  arrears  and 
paying  for  fortification.  However  large  his  private  re- 
sources, they  must  soon  be  exhausted.  Could  the  Eng- 
lish loan  fail?  And  if  not,  would  it  come  in  time?  If 


THE    CASTAWAY  403 

it  was  too  long  delayed,  disaster  must  follow.  Discipline 
would  lapse.  The  diverse  elements  on  the  point  of  co- 
alescing, would  fly  asunder.  The  issue  would  be  lost. 
This  thought  was  a  live  coal  to  him  night  and  day. 

The  rainy  season  set  in  with  all  its  rigors.  Missolonghi 
became  a  pestilential  mud-basket  beside  which  the  dikes 
of  Holland  were  a  desert  of  Arabia  for  dryness.  An  un- 
known plague  fastened  on  the  bazaar  and  terrified  the 
townspeople.  But  in  all  conditions,  Gordon  seemed 
inspirited  with  a  calm  cheerfulness. 

He  thought  of  Teresa  continually.  Oddly  enough,  she 
stood  before  him  always  as  he  had  once  seen  her  on  a 
square  in  Venice,  with  moonlight  tangling  an  aureole  in 
her  gold  hair,  her  face  now  not  frozen  with  mute  horror 
— that  picture  had  vanished  forever! — ^but  serene  with 
love  and  abnegation.  This  face  lighted  the  page  as  he  la- 
bored with  his  correspondence.  It  went  with  him  on  the 
drenching  beach  when  he  directed  the  landing  of  cannon 
sent  by  the  German  committee — more  dimly  seen  this 
day,  for  a  peculiar  dizziness  and  lethargy  which  he  had 
battled  for  a  fortnight,  was  upon  him. 

As  he  rode  back  through  the  rain  and  the  bottomless 
quagmire.  Prince  Mavrocordato  and  Pietro  Gamba  sat 
waiting  in  his  room  at  headquarters.  They  had  been 
talking  earnestly.  The  outlook  was  leaden.  There  had 
been  as  yet  no  news  of  the  expected  loan.  The  lustful 
eyes  of  foreign  ministers  were  watching.  Ulysses  had 
seized  the  acropolis  of  Athens,  and  his  agents  were  every- 
where, seeking  to  undermine  the  provisional  govern- 
ment. The  Suliotes, .  whose  chiefs  swarmed  in  Misso- 
longhi, had  begun  to  demand  money  and  preferment. 

But  these  things,  serious  as  they  were,  weighed  less 


404  THE    CASTAWAY 

heavily  upon  Prince  Mavrocordato's  mind  than  the 
health  of  the  man  he  now  awaited  in  that  cheerless 
chamber. 

"Another  post  would  do  as  well/^  the  Greek  said 
gloomily.  "Higher  ground,  out  of  the  marshes.  He 
stays  here  only  at  risk  to  himself.  Yet  he  will  listen 
to  no  proposal  of  removal.^' 

"What  does  he  say?''  asked  Gamba. 

"That  Missolonghi  is  the  center  of  Western  Greece, 
the  focus-point  of  European  observation.  And  he  ends 
all  discussion  by  the  question:  *If  I  abandoned  this 
castle  to  the  Turks,  what  would  the  partizans  of  Ulysses 
say?'^' 

Gamba  was  silent.  Mavrocordato  knit  his  bushy 
brows.  He  knew  the  answer  only  too  well.  And  yet 
the  safety  of  this  single  individual  had  come  to  mean 
everything.  Without  him  Greece's  organization  would 
be  chaos,  its  armies,  rabbles. 

While  he  pondered,  Gordon  entered.  He  had  thrown 
off  his  wet  clothing  below.  The  shepherd-dog  crouched 
by  the  door,  sprang  up  with  a  joyful  whine  as  the  new- 
comer dropped  a  hand  on  his  head. 

Pietro  had  a  sudden  vision  of  his  sister  as  she  placed 
upon  him  her  last  injunction — ^to  guard  this  man's  life. 
He  had  done  all  he  could.  Yet  to  what  avail  ?  Watch- 
fulness might  ward  steel  and  lead,  but  what  could  com- 
bat the  unflagging  toil,  the  hourly  exposure,  the  stern 
denial  of  creature  comfort?  His  eyes  wandered  around 
the  damp  walls  hung  with  swords,  carbines  and  pistols, 
to  the  rough  mattress  at  one  side,  the  spare  meal  laid 
waiting  the  occupant's  hasty  leisure.  In  his  mind  ran 
the  words  with  which  Gordon  had  replied  to  one  of  his 


THE   CASTAWAY  405 

protests :  "Here  is  a  stake  worth  millions  such  as  I  am. 
While  I  can  stand  at  all,  I  must  stand  here/^  Gamba'a 
thought  returned  to  what  the  prince  was  saying : 

"Allow  me  at  least  to  furnish  this  chamber  for  your 
lordship.    A  bed — ^' 

"Our  Suliotes  spread  their  mats  on  the  ground/'  was 
the  reply,  "or  on  the  dirt  floor  of  their  miserable  huts. 
I  am  better  couched  than  they/' 

"They  are  used  to  it,"  protested  the  Greek.  "They 
have  never  known  better.  They  are  proof  against  marsh 
fever,  too."  He  paused  an  instant,  then  added:  "I 
have  just  learned  that  the  wines  I  have  ordered  sent 
you,  have  on  each  occasion  been  returned  to  the  com- 
missariat." 

Gordon's  gaze  had  followed  the  other's.  The  food 
spread  there  was  of  the  meanest:  goat's  meat,  coarse 
peasaat's  bread,  a  pitcher  of  sour  cider.  He  was  fight- 
ing back  a  vertigo  that  had  been  misting  his  eyes. 

"My  table  costs  me  exactly  forty-five  paras.  That  is 
the  allowance  of  each  Greek  soldier.  I  shall  live  as 
they  live,  Prince,  no  worse,  no  better." 

His  voice  broke  off.  He  reeled.  Mavrocordato  sprang 
and  threw  an  arm  about  him.  Pietro  hastened  to  send 
Fletcher  to  the  improvised  hospital  for  the  physicians. 

They  came  hastily,  to  find  Gordon  in  a  convulsion 
of  fearful  strength,  though  it  lasted  but  a  moment. 
Leeches  were  put  to  his  temples  and  consciousness  re- 
turned. He  opened  his  eyes  upon  an  anxious  group  of 
surgeons  and  staff-officers. 

A  commotion  arose  at  the  instant  from  the  court- 
yard. Mavrocordato  stepped  to  the  window.  He  made 
an  exclamation.    The  place  was  filling  with  Suliotes — 


406  THE    CASTAWAY 

they  were  dragging  its  two  cannon  from  their  stations 
and  turning  their  muzzles  against  the  doors. 

An  orderly  burst  into  the  room.  "They  are  seizing 
the  arsenal  I"  he  cried. 

With  an  oath  a  Swedish  officer  leaped  down  the  stair, 
drawing  his  sword  as  he  ran.  He  fell  stunned  by  the 
blow  of  a  musket-butt. 

Wild  figures,  their  faces  and  splendid  attire  splashed 
with  mud,  gushed  in,  choked  the  stairway,  and  poured 
into  the  narrow  apartment — ^to  waver  and  halt  ab- 
ruptly, abashed. 

This  was  not  what  Trevanion  had  craftily  told  them 
of — not  the  abode  of  soft  luxury  and  gem-hung  mag- 
nificence aifected  by  the  foreign  archistraiegos  whose 
wealth  was  limitless  and  who  sipped  wines  of  liquid 
pearls,  while  they,  their  payments  in  arrears,  drank 
sharp  raisin-juice.  What  they  saw  was  at  strange  vari- 
ance with  this  picture.  A  chill  stone  chamber,  a  meager 
repast,  uncarpeted  floors.  A  handful  of  men,  each 
with  a  drawn  sword.  These — and  a  form  stretched  on 
a  rough  mattress,  an  ensanguined  bandage  about  his 
forehead,  a  single  gray-haired  servant  kneeling  by  his 
side. 

The  man  on  the  couch  rose  totteringly,  his  hand  on 
his  servant's  shoulder.  He  was  ghastly  white,  but  his 
eye  flashed  and  burned  as  it  turned  on  those  semi-bar- 
baric invaders. 

Gordon  began  to  speak — ^not  in  the  broader  Eomaic, 
but  in  their  own  mountain  patois,  a  tongue  he  had  not 
recalled  since  long  years.  The  uncouth  vocabulary, 
learned  in  his  youthful  adventurous  journey  for  very 
lack  of  mental  pabulum,  had  lain  in  some  brain-comer 


THE   CASTAWAY  40r 

to  spring  up  now  with  the  spontaneity  of  inspiration. 
At  the  first  words  they  started,  looked  from  one  to  an- 
other, their  hands  dropped  from  their  weapons.  His 
voice  proceeded,  gathering  steel,  holding  them  like  bayo- 
nets. 

"Am  I  then  to  abandon  your  land  to  its  enemies, 
because  of  you,  heads  of  clans,  warriors  bom  with  arms 
in  your  hands,  because  you  yourselves  bring  all  effort 
to  naught?  For  what  do  you  look?  Is  it  gold?  The 
money  I  brought  has  purchased  cannon  and  ammuni- 
tion. It  has  furnished  a  fleet.  It  has  cared  for  your 
sick  and  set  rations  before  your  men.  Do  you  demand 
preferment?  You  are  already  chiefs,  by  birth  and  by 
election.  Have  I  taken  that  away?  Eank  shall  be 
yours — ^but  do  you  hope  to  earn  it  idly  in  camp,  or  fight- 
ing as  your  fathers  fought,  like  your  own  Botzaris,  who 
fell  for  his  country  ?  Is  it  for  yourselves  you  ask  these 
things  now,  or  is  it  for  Greece  ?" 

Of  the  staff  officers  there  gathered  none  knew  the 
tongue  in  which  he  spoke.  But  they  could  guess  what 
he  was  saying.  They  saw  the  rude  chieftains  cower  be- 
fore his  challenge.  Then,  as  he  went  on,  under  that 
magnetic  gaze  they  saw  the  savage  brows  lighten,  the 
fierce  eyes  soften  and  fall. 

Gordon's  tone  had  lost  its  lash.  His  words  dropped 
gently.  He  was  speaking  of  those  old  days  when  he  had 
slept  beneath  a  Suliote  tent  and  written  songs  of  the 
freedom  for  which  they  now  strove.  The  handful  be- 
side him  had  put  up  their  swords.  For  a  moment  not 
only  individual  lives,  but  the  fate  of  Greece  itself  had 
hung  in  the  balance.  They  watched  with  curious  in- 
tentness. 


408  THE   CASTAWAY 

As  the  speaker  paused,  a  burly  chieftain,  built  like 
a  tower,  thrust  up  his  hand  and  turned  to  the  rest, 
speaking  rapidly  and  with  many  gesticulations.  He 
pointed  to  the  rough  couch,  to  the  coarse  fare  on  the 
table.    The  others  answered  with  guttural  ejaculations. 

All  at  once  he  bared  his  breast,  slashed  it  with  his 
dagger,  and  touched  knee  to  ground  before  Gordon's 
feet.  The  rest  followed  his  example.  Each  as  he  rose, 
saluted  and  passed  out.  Before  a  dozen  had  knelt,  the 
rumble  of  wheels  in  the  courtyard  announced  that  the 
cannon  were  being  dragged  back  to  their  places. 

The  last  Suliote  chief  retired  and  Gordon's  hand 
fell  from  Fletcher's  shoulder.  The  headquarters'  sur- 
geon broke  the  tension: 

"His  lordship  must  have  quiet !"  he  warned. 

The  whiteness  had  been  growing  upon  Gordon's  face. 
As  the  officers  retired,  he  sank  back  upon  the  couch. 
Mavrocordato  held  brandy  to  his  lips,  but  he  shook  his 
head. 

He  lay  very  still  for  a  while,  his  eyes  closed,  hearing 
the  murmuring  voices  of  the  prince  and  Gamba  as  they 
stood  with  the  physicians,  feeling  on  the  mattress  a 
shaking  hand  that  he  knew  was  Fletcher's. 

A  harrowing  fear  was  upon  him.  The  mutiny  that 
had  been  imminent  this  hour  he  had  vanquished;  he 
might  not  succeed  again.  With  resources  all  might  be 
possible,  but  his  own  funds  were  stretched  to  the  last 
para.  And  the  English  loan  still  hung  fire.  If  he  but 
had  the  proceeds  of  a  single  property — of  Eochdale, 
which  he  had  turned  over  to  the  committee  in  London 
— ^he  could  await  the  aid  which  must  eventually  come. 
Lacking  both,  he  faced  inaction,  failure;  and  now  t© 


THE   CASTAWAY  409 

cap  all,  illness  threatened  him.  He  almost  groaned 
aloud.     Greece  must  not  fail! 

There  was  but  one  way — ^to  fight  and  fight  soon.  In- 
stead of  waiting  till  famine  made  ally  with  the  enemy, 
to  attack  first.  To  throw  his  forces,  though  undisci- 
plined, upon  the  Turks.  Victory  would  inspirit  the 
friends  of  the  revolution.  It  would  knit  closer  every 
segment.  It  would  hasten  the  loan  in  England.  Might 
the  assault  be  repelled?  No  worse,  even  so,  than  a  de- 
feat without  a  blow — the  shame  of  a  cowardly  disinte- 
gration ! 

"Prince — ^'  Gordon  summoned  all  his  strength  and 
sat  up.  "May  I  ask  you  to  notify  my  staff-officers  to 
meet  me  here  in  an  hour?  We  shall  discuss  a  plan  of 
immediate  attack  upon  Lepanto." 


CHAPTER  LIX 

IN  WHICH  TEEESA  MAKES  A  JOUENEY 

^'Help  me  to  remember  that  it  is  for  Greece — ^and  for 
himself  most  of  all!^^  That  was  Teresa's  cry  through 
those  dreary  weeks  alone.  The  chill  instinct  that  had 
seized  her  as  Gordon  held  her  in  that  last  clasp  had 
never  left  her.  She  struggled  always  with  a  grim  sense 
of  the  inevitable.  At  times  she  fought  the  desire  to 
follow,  even  to  Greece,  to  fold  him  in  her  arms,  to  en- 
treat: "Give  up  the  cause!  Come  back  to  me — ^to 
love  V  Her  sending  of  Pietro  had  given  her  comfort. 
She  subsisted  upon  his  frequent  letters,  upon  the  rarer, 
dearer  ones  of  Gordon,  and  upon  the  remembrance  of 
the  great  issue  to  which  she  had  resigned  him. 

One  day  a  message  came  from  a  great  Venetian  bank- 
ing-house. It  told  of  a  sum  of  money  held  for  her 
whose  size  startled  her.  She,  who  had  possessed  but  a 
slender  marriage-portion,  was  more  than  rich  in  her 
own  right.  An  accompanying  letter  from  Dallas  told 
her  the  gift  was  Gordon's.  A  wild  rush  of  tears  blurred 
the  page  as  she  read. 

That  night  she  dreamed  a  strange  dream;  yet  it  was 
not  a  dream  wholly,  for  she  lay  with  open  eyes  star- 
ing at  the  crucifix  that  hung  starkly,  a  murky  outline, 
(410) 


THE   CASTAWAY  411 

against  the  wall.  Suddenly  she  started  up  in  the  bed. 
Where  the  ivory  image  had  glimmered  against  the  ebony 
was  another  face,  colorless,  sharp-etched,  a  wavering 
light  playing  upon  it.  It  was  Gordon's,  deep-lined, 
haggard,  as  though  in  mute  extremity.  His  eyes  looked 
at  her  steadily,  appealingly. 

She  held  out  her  arms  with  a  moan.  Then  the  light 
faded,  the  phantom  merged  again  into  the  shadow,  and 
in  the  darkness  she  hid  her  eyes  and  swayed  and  wept. 
She  slept  no  more.    A  blind  terror  held  her  till  dawn. 

At  noon  Tita  brought  her  a  Pisan  paper,  with  a  col- 
umn of  Greek  news.  It  stated  that  the  English  loan, 
on  which  depended  the  hopes  of  the  revolutionists,  was 
still  unsubscribed  in  London.  The  measure  would 
doubtless  be  too  late  to  stay  the  descent  of  Yussuff 
Pasha's  armies.  Dissensions  were  rife  at  Missolonghi. 
At  Constantinople  the  sultan,  in  full  divan,  had  pro- 
claimed George  Gordon  an  enemy  to  the  Porte  and 
offered  a  pashawlih  and  the  three-horse-tailed  lance  for 
his  head. 

The  English  loan — too  late !  Its  speedy  coming  had 
been  a  certainty  in  Gordon's  mind  before  his  departure. 
Was  it  the  agony  of  failure  she  had  seen  on  the  face 
that  looked  at  her  from  the  darkness  ?  Was  he  even  now 
crucified  on  the  cross  of  a  despairing  crisis  ? 

A  quick  thought  came  to  her.  The  sum  he  had  made 
hers — a  fortune,  almost  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  of 
English  money!  Might  not  that  serve,  at  least  until 
the  loan  came  ?    If  she  could  help  him  thus ! 

There  was  no  time  for  correspondence,  banking  rou- 
tine— ^no  time  for  delays  of  any  sort.  It  must  go  now ! 
A  daring  plan  was  born  in  her  mind.    She  could  take 


412  THE   CASTAWAY 

it  herself,  direct  to  his  necessity.  Why  not?  Such  a 
brig  as  Gordon  had  chartered  was  no  doubt  to  be  found 
at  Leghorn.  Yet  she  could  not  make  the  voyage  with 
but  a  single  servant  for  escort.  To  whom  could  she  ap- 
peal ?    To  whom  else  could  that  far-away  cause  be  near  ? 

A  figure  flashed  before  her  with  the  directness  of  a 
vision — a  man  she  had  seen  but  once,  when  with  her 
husband,  he  had  confronted  her  on  a  monastery  path 
one  dreadful  buried  day.  The  friar  of  San  Lazzarro! 
She  recalled  the  clear  deep  eyes,  the  venerable  head,  the 
uncompromising  honesty  of  the  padre's  countenance. 
He  had  known  the  man  she  loved — ^had  seen  his  life 
in  that  retreat.    Was  he  still  there?    Would  he  aid  her? 

An  hour  more  and  she  was  riding  with  Tita  toward 
Leghorn  harbor.  By  the  next  sunrise  she  was  on  her 
way  to  Venice.  Three  days  later  Tita's  oar  swung  her 
gondola  to  the  wharf  of  the  island  of  Saint  Lazarus. 

She  stepped  ashore  and  rang  a  bell  at  the  wall-door 
beside  which,  in  its  stone  shrine,  stood  the  leaden  im- 
age of  the  Virgin,  looking  out  across  the  gray  lagoon. 

The  place  was  very  still.  Peach-blooms  hung  their 
glistening  spray  above  the  orchard  close,  and  swallows 
circled  about  a  peaceful  spire  from  which  a  slow  mellow 
note  was  striking.  It  seemed  to  Teresa  that  only  yes- 
terday she  had  stood  there  face  to  face  with  Gordon. 
With  a  sudden  impulse  she  sank  to  her  knees  before  the 
shrine. 

When  she  rose  she  was  not  alone;  he  who  she  had 
prayed  might  still  be  within  those  walls  stood  near — 
the  same  reverend  aspect,  the  benignant  brow,  the  coarse 
brown  robe. 


THE   CASTAWAY  413 

''What  do  you  seek,  my  daughter?'* 

As  Teresa  told  her  errand,  looking  into  the  soluble 
eyes  bent  on  her,  the  breeze  stirred  the  young  leaves, 
and  the  tiny  waves  lapped  the  margin-stones  in  a  golden 
undercurrent  of  sound.  Her  words,  unstudied  and  tense 
with  feeling,  acquired  an  unconscious  eloquence.  A 
great  issue  in  perilous  straits;  she,  with  empty  afflu- 
ence that  might  save  it — ^but  alone,  without  companion 
for  such  a  journey. 

The  friar  listened  with  a  growing  wonder.  In  the 
seclusion  of  that  solitude  he  had  long  since  heard  of 
the  Greek  rebellion— had  yearned  for  its  success.  But 
it  had  been  a  thing  remote  from  his  lagoon  island.  He  ? 
To  leave  the  peace  of  his  studies  to  accompany  a  woman, 
to  a  land  in  the  throes  of  war?  A  strange  request! 
Why  had  she  come  to  him? 

"Have  I  ever  seen  you  before,  my  daughter?'' 

Her  heart  beat  heavily.    'TTes,  Father." 

She  was  leaning  against  the  rock,  her  face  lifted  ta 
his.  The  posture,  the  pathetic  purity  of  her  features, 
brought  recollection. 

Padre  Somalian's  eyes  lighted.  Since  that  unfor- 
gotten  scene  on  the  path,  he  had  often  wondered  what 
would  be  this  woman's  wedded  life,  so  tragically  begun. 
By  her  face,  she  had  suffered.  Her  husband  had  been 
old  then — doubtless  was  dead.  It  was  a  mark  of  grace 
that  she  came  now  to  him — a  holy  man — ^before  others. 
If,  alone  in  the  world,  she  chose  to  consecrate  her  wealth 
thus  nobly,  well  and  good.  If  there  had  been  fault  back 
of  that  rich  marriage,  such  an  act  would  be  in  the  line 
of  fitting  penance. 

If  there  had  been  fault!      The  friar's  eyes  turned 


414  THE   CASTAWAY 

away.  He  was  thinking  of  the  stranger  whose  brow  her 
husband^s  blow  had  marked — of  the  paper  he  himself 
had  lifted  from  beneath  the  stone.  Since  the  gusty 
day  when  he  found  the  abandoned  robe,  he  had  prayed 
unceasingly  for  that  unknown  man's  soul. 

'^ou  will  go?'' 

The  question  recalled  his  thought,  gone  afar. 

"My  daughter,"  he  demurred,  "who  am  I,  bred  to 
quiet  and  contemplation,  to  guide  you  in  such  an  enter- 
prise ?" 

Tears  had  come  to  Teresa's  eyes.  "Then  the  hope  of 
Greece  will  perish !  And  he — its  leader,  who  has  given 
his  all— will  fail!" 

The  padre's  look  clouded.  It  was  the  undying  war 
of  Christendom  against  the  idolater,  the  fight  the 
church  militant  must  wage  daily  till  the  reign  of  the 
thousand  golden  years  began.  Yet  noble  as  was  the  Gre- 
cian struggle,  to  his  mind  it  had  been  smirched  by  a 
name  famed  for  its  evil. 

"I  would  so  fair  a  cause  had  a  better  champion!" 
he  said  slowly. 

Her  tears  dried  away.  "And  you  say  that?"  she 
cried,  her  tone  vibrating.  'Y'ou  who  saw  him,  and  with 
whom  he  lived  here? — ^you?" 

He  thought  her  distraite.  "He  here?  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"Do  you  not  know  ?  Father,  he  who  leads  the  Greeks 
is  the  man  with  whom  I  stood  that  day  beside  this 
shrine !" 

The  friar  started.  Rapid  emotions  crossed  his  face. 
For  many  a  month  a  sore  question  had  turned  itself 
over  and  over  in  his  mind.     Had  he  stumbled  in  his 


THE   CASTAWAY  415 

duty  to  that  man  who  had  come  in  hopelessness  and 
departed  with  despair  unlightened?  Day  after  day  he 
had  seen  the  misery  reflected  in  the  countenance.  He 
knew  now  that  he  had  been  witnessing  the  efforts  of  a 
fallen  soul  to  regain  its  lost  estate — a  soul  that  was  now 
fighting  in  the  ranks  of  the  Cross !  In  his  own  self-re- 
proach he  had  prayed  that  it  might  be  given  him  again 
to  hold  before  his  eyes  the  symbol  of  the  eternal  suffer- 
ing.   Was  this  not  the  answer  to  that  prayer? 

His  eyes  suffused. 

"Wait  for  me  here,  my  daughter/^  he  said.  "I  shall 
not  be  long.  We  go  together.  Who  knows  if  the  sum- 
mons you  bring  be  not  the  voice  of  God !" 


CHAPTEK  LX 

TBIED  AS  BY  FIKB 

The  night  was  still,  the  air  sopped  with  recent  rain, 
the  sky  piled  with  sluggish  cloud-strata  through  whose 
rifts  the  half -moon  glimpsed  obliquely,  making  the  sea- 
beach  that  curved  above  Missolonghi  an  eerie  checker 
of  shine  and  shade. 

Between  hill  and  shore  a  lean  path,  from  whose  edges 
the  cochineal  cactus  swung  its  quivers  of  prickly  arrows, 
shambled  across  a  great  flat  ledge  that  jutted  from  the 
hill's  heel  to  break  abruptly  above  a  deep  pool  gouged 
by  hungry  tempests.  On  the  reed-clustered  sand  be- 
yond the  rock-shelf  were  disposed  a  body  of  men  splen- 
didly uniformed,  in  kirtle  and  capote,  standing  by  their 
hobbled  horses.  On  the  rocky  ledge,  in  the  flickering 
light  of  a  torch  thrust  into  a  cleft,  were  seated  their  two 
leaders  conversing. 

They  had  ridden  far.  The  object  of  their  coming 
was  the  safe  delivery  of  a  letter  to  the  one  man  to 
whom  all  Greece  looked  now.  The  message  was  mo- 
mentous and  secret,  the  errand  swift  and  silent.  In 
Missolonghi,  whose  lights  glowed  a  mile  away,  clang- 
ing night  and  day  with  hurried  preparation,  none  knew 
of  the  presence  of  that  company  on  the  deserted  shore, 

(416) 


THE   CASTAWAY  417 

save  one  of  its  own  number  who  had  ridden,  under  cover 
of  the  dark,  into  the  town's  defenses. 

*'This  is  a  journey  that  pleases  me  well,  Lambro,'' 
averred  one  of  the  primates  on  the  rock.  "I  wish  we 
were  well  on  our  way  back  to  the  Congress  at  Salona, 
and  the  English  lordos  leading  us.  What  an  entry  that 
will  be!  But  what  if  he  doubts  your  messenger — sus- 
pects some  trickery  of  Ulysses?  Suppose  he  will  not 
come  out  to  us  ?" 

"Then  tne  letter  must  go  to  him  in  Missolonghi,^' 
said  the  other,  "Mavrocordato  or  no  Mavrocordato.  He 
will  come  properly  guarded,^^  he  added,  ^^ut  he  will 
come.'' 

"Why  are  you  so  certain?'* 

'because  the  man  I  sent  to  him  an  hour  since  is  one 
he  must  trust.  It  was  his  sister  the  Excellency  saved 
in  his  youth  from  the  sack.  Their  father  was  then  a 
merchant  of  the  bazaar  in  this  same  town.  Do  you  not 
know  the  tale?"  And  thereupon  he  recited  the  story 
as  he  had  heard  it  years  before,  little  dreaming  they 
sat  upon  the  very  spot  where,  on  that  long  ago  dawn,, 
the  Turkish  wands  had  halted  that  grim  procession. 
*'I  would  the  brother,"  he  closed,  "might  sometime 
find  the  cowardly  dog  who  abandoned  her !" 

They  rose  to  their  feet,  for  dim  forms  were  coming 
along  the  path  from  the  town — a  single  horseman  and 
a  body-guard  afoot.  "It  is  the  archistrategos/'  both 
exclaimed. 

The  younger  hastily  withdrew;  the  other  advanced 
a  step  to  meet  the  man  who  dismounted  and  came  for- 
ward. 

Gordon's  face  in  the  torchlight  was  worn  and  hag- 


418  THE   CASTAWAY 

gard,  for  the  inward  fever  had  never  left  him  since  that 
fierce  convulsion — nature's  protest  against  unbearable 
conditions.  Day  by  day,  with  the  same  unyielding  will 
he  had  fought  his  weakness,  pushing  forward  the  plans 
for  the  assault  on  Lepanto,  slaving  with  the  gunners, 
drilling  musket-men,  much  of  the  day  in  the  saddle, 
and  filching  from  the  hours  of  his  rest,  time  for  his 
committee  correspondence,  bearing  always  that  burn- 
ing coal  of  anxiety — the  English  loan  which  did  not 
come. 

The  primate  saw  this  look,  touched  with  surprise  as 
Gordon  caught  the  stir  of  horses  and  men  from  the 
further  gloom.  He  bowed  profoundly  as  he  drew  forth 
a  letter. 

"I  regret  to  have  brought  Your  Illustrious  Excel- 
lency from  your  quarters,''  he  said  in  Eomaic,  ^T^ut  my 
orders  were  specific." 

Gordon  stepped  close  to  the  torch  and  opened  the 
letter.  The  primate  drew  back  and  left  him  on  the 
rock,  a  solitary  figure  in  the  yellow  glare,  watched  from 
one  side  by  two  score  of  horsemen,  richly  accoutred, 
standing  silent — on  the  other  by  a  rough  body-guard 
of  fifty,  in  ragged  garments,  worn  foot-wear,  but  fully 
armed. 

Once — twice — three  times  Gordon  read,  slowly, 
strangely  deliberate. 

A  shiver  ran  over  him,  and  he  felt  the  torchlight  on 
his  face  like  a  sudden  hot  wave.  The  letter  was  a  sum- 
mons to  S'alona,  where  assembled  in  Congress  the  chiefs 
and  primates  of  the  whole  Morea — but  it  was  far  more 
than  this ;  in  its  significant  circumlocution,  its  meaning 


THE   CASTAWAY  419 

diplomatic  phrases,  lay  couched  a  clear  invitation  that 
seemed  to  transform  his  blood  to  a  volatile  ichor. 

Gordon's  eyes  turned  to  the  shadow  whence  came  the 
shifting  and  stamping  of  horses — ^then  to  the  lights  of 
the  fortifications  he  had  left.  He  could  send  back  these 
silent  horsemen,  refuse  to  go  with  them,  return  to  Mis- 
solonghi,  to  his  desperate  waiting  for  the  English  loan, 
to  the  hazardous  attack  on  Lepanto,  keeping  faith  with 
the  cause,  falling  with  it,  if  needs  be ;  or — he  could  wear 
the  crown  of  Greece! 

The  outlines  of  the  situation  had  flashed  upon  him 
as  clearly  as  a  landscape  seen  by  lightning.  The  letter 
in  his  hand  was  signed  by  a  name  powerful  in  three 
chanceleries.  The  courts  of  Europe,  aroused  by  the  ex- 
periment of  the  American  colonies,  wished  no  good  of 
republicanism.  Names  had  been  buzzing  in  State 
closets:  Jerome  Bonaparte,  Leopold  of  Saxe-Coburg. 
But  Greece  had  gone  too  far  for  that ;  if  a  foreign  ruler 
be  given  her,  he  must  be  one  acceptable  to  the  popular 
mind.  Governmental  eyes  turned  now  to  him!  He, 
the  despised  of  England,  a  king!  The  founder  of  a 
fresh  dynasty,  the  first  emperor  of  New  Greece ! 

Standing  there,  feeling  his  heart  beat  to  his  temples, 
a  weird  sensation  came  to  him.  There  had  been  a  time 
in  his  youth  when  he  had  camped  upon  that  shore, 
when  on  that  very  rock  he  had  struck  an  individual 
blow  against  Turkish  barbarity.  Now  the  hum  of  the 
voices  beyond  turned  into  a  wild  Suliote  stave  roared 
about  a  fire  and  he  felt  again  the  same  chill,  prescient 
instinct  that  had  possessed  him  when  he  said:  'TEt 
is  as  though  this  spot — ^that  town  yonder — were  tan- 
gled in  my  destiny!"     Was  this  not  the  fulfilment. 


4«0  THE   CASTAWAY 

that  on  the  spot  where  he  had  penned  his  first  im- 
mortal lines  for  Greece,  should  be  offered  him  her 
throne? 

A  mental  barb  stimg  him.  It  was  for  Greek  free- 
dom he  had  sung  then — ^the  ancient  freedom  tyranny 
had  defiled.  And  would  this  mean  true  liberty?  The 
Moslem  would  be  cast  out,  but  for  what?  A  coup 
d'etat!  A  military  dictatorship,  bolstered  by  suzerain 
arms!  The  legislative  government,  with  the  hopes  of 
Mavrocordato,  of  all  the  western  country,  fallen  into 
the  dust!  Greece  a  puppet  kingdom,  paying  compen- 
ijation  in  self-respect  to  self-aggrandizing  cabinets. 

But  a  Greece  with  himself  upon  the  throne ! 

Far-off  siren  voices  seemed  to  call  to  him  from  the 
darkness.  What  would  be  his?  World-fame — ^not  the 
bays  he  despised,  but  the  laurel.  A  seat  above  even 
social  convention,  unprecedented,  secure.  A  power  na- 
tionally supreme,  in  State  certainly,  in  Church  per- 
haps— power  to  override  old  conditions,  to  re-create  his 
own  future.  To  sever  old  bonds  with  the  sword  of  royal 
prerogative.    Eventually,  to  choose  his  queen! 

A  fit  of  trembling  seized  him.  He  felt  Teresa's  arms 
about  him — warm,  human,  loving  arms — ^her  lips  on 
his,  sweet  as  honeysuckle  after  rain.  For  a  moment 
temptation  flung  itself  out  of  the  night  upon  him.  Not 
■such  as  he  had  grappled  with  when  she  had  come  to  him 
on  the  square  in  Venice.  Not  such  as  he  had  felt  when 
Dallas  told  him  of  the  portrait  hidden  from  Ada's  eyes. 
It  was  a  temptation  a  thousandfold  stronger  and  more 
insidious.  It  shook  to  its  depths  the  mystic  peace  that 
had  come  to  him  on  the  deck  of  the  Hercules  after  that 


THE   CASTAWAY  421 

last  parting.  It  was  as  though  all  the  old  craving,  the 
bitterness,  the  cruciate  longing  of  his  love  rose  at  once 
to  a  combat  under  which  the  whole  mind  of  the  man 
bent  and  writhed  in  anguish. 

Gordon^s  face,  as  it  stared  out  from  the  torch-flare 
across  the  gloomy  gulf,  showed  to  the  man  who  waited 
near-by  no  sign  of  the  struggle  that  wrung  his  soul,  and 
that,  passing  at  length,  left  him  blanched  and  exhausted 
like  one  from  whose  veins  a  burning  fever  has  ebbed 
suddenly. 

The  primate  came  eagerly  from  the  shadow  as  Gor- 
don turned  and  spoke: 

"Say  to  those  who  sent  you  that  what  they  propose 
is  impossible — " 

"Illustrious  Excellency !" 

" — that  I  came  hither  for  Greek  independence,  and 
if  this  cause  shall  fall,  I  choose  to  bury  myself  in  its 
Tuins.^^ 

The  other  was  dumb  from  sheer  astonishment.  He 
knew  the  proposal  the  letter  contained.  Had  not  he, 
Lambro,  primate  of  Argos,  nurtured  the  plan  among 
the  chiefs  ?  Had  not  the  representative  of  a  great  power 
confided  in  his  discretion  when  he  sent  him  with  that 
letter?  And  now  when  the  whole  Morea  was  ready — 
when  prime  ministers  agreed — ^the  one  man  to  whom 
it  might  be  offered,  refused  the  crown!  He  swallowed 
hard,  looking  at  the^letter  which  had  been  handed  back 
to  him. 

Before  he  recovered  his  wits,  Gordon  had  walked  un- 
certainly to  his  horse,  mounted,  and  was  riding  toward 
the  town,  his  body-guard  streaming  out  behind  him, 
running  afoot. 


422  THE   CASTAWAY 

As  his  fellow  officer  approached  him,  Lambro  swore 
an  oath: 

"By  the  Virgin !  You  shall  return  to  Salona  without 
me.    I  stay  here  and  fight  with  the  English  lordosT 

He  rode  into  Missolonghi  that  night,  and  with  him 
were  twenty  of  his  men. 


CHAPTEE  LXI 

THE  EENUNCIATIOl? 

Gordon  entered  his  bleak  room  with  mind  strangely 
numbed.  Gamba,  now  acting  as  his  adjutant,  was  wait- 
ing, and  him  he  dismissed  without  dictating  his  usual 
correspondence.  The  struggle  he  had  fought  had  bitten 
deeply  into  his  fund  of  physical  resistance.  A  tremor 
was  in  his  hands — a  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead. 

Eiding,  with  the  ashes  of  denial  on  his  lips,  it  had 
come  to  him  that  in  this  temptation  he  had  met  his  last 
and  strongest  enemy.  It  had  found  him  in  his  weak- 
ness, and  that  weakness  it  would  not  be  given  him  to 
surmount.  The  sword  was  wearing  out  the  scabbard. 
His  own  hand  should  never  lead  the  Greece  he  loved  to 
its  freedom — should  never  marshal  it  at  its  great  in- 
stallation. None  but  himself  knew  how  fearfully  ill- 
ness had  grown  upon  him  or  with  what  difficult  pain 
he  had  striven  to  conceal  its  havoc.  Only  he  himself 
had  had  no  illusions.  He  knew  to-night  that  the  final 
decision  had  lain  between  the  cause  and  his  life  itself. 
The  one  thing  which  might  have  knit  up  his  ravelled 
health — ^the  abandonment  of  this  miasma-breeding  town 
for  the  wholesome  unvitiated  hill  air  of  Salona,  of  the 
active  campaign  for  passive  trust  to  foreign  dictation — 

(433) 


424  THE   CASTAWAY 

he  had  thrust  from  him.  And  in  so  doing,  he  had  made 
the  last  great  choice. 

"Lyon !"  he  said — ^"^Lyon !"  The  shepherd-dog  by  the 
hearth  raised  his  head.  His  eyes  glistened.  His  tail 
beat  the  stone.  He  whined  uneasily  as  his  master  be- 
gan to  pace  the  floor,  up  and  down,  his  step  uneven^ 
forcing  his  limbs  to  defy  their  dragging  inertia. 

As  the  long  night-watch  knelled  wearily  away,  drop 
by  drop  Gordon  drank  this  last  and  bitter  cup  of  re- 
nunciation. Love  and  life  he  put  behind  him,  facing 
unshrinkingly  the  grisly  specter  that  looked  at  him  from 
the  void. 

He  thought  of  Teresa  singing  to  her  lonely  harp  in 
a  far-off  fragrant  Italian  garden.  His  gaze  turned  to  a 
closet  built  into  the  corner  of  the  room.  In  it  was  a 
manuscript — five  additional  cantos  of  "Don  Juan''  writ- 
ten in  that  last  year  at  Pisa,  the  completion  of  the  poem, 
on  which  he  had  lavished  infinite  labor.  He  remem- 
bered an  hour  when  her  voice  had  said :  "One  day  you 
will  finish  it — more  worthily.''  Had  he  done  so  ?  Had 
he  redeemed  those  earlier  portions  which,  though  his 
ancient  enemy  had  declared  them  "touched  with  im- 
mortality," yet  rang  with  cadences  long  since  grown, 
painful  to  him  ?  The  world  might  judge ! 

He  thought  of  his  Memoirs,  completed,  which  he  had 
sent  from  Italy  by  Dallas  for  the  hand  of  Tom  Moore 
in  London.  These  pages  were  a  brief  for  the  defense, 
submitted  to  the  Supreme  Bench  of  Posterity. 

"For  Ada !"  he  muttered.  "The  smiles  of  her  youth 
have  been  her  mother's,  but  the  tears  of  her  maturity 
shall  be  mine !" 

His  life  for  Greece !    And  giving  it,  it  should  be  hii^ 


THE   CASTAWAY  425 

to  strike  at  least  one  fiery  blow,  to  lead  one  fierce  clash 
of  arms !  He  looked  where  a  glittering  helmet  hung  on 
the  wall,  elaborately  wrought  and  emblazoned,  bearing 
his  own  crest  and  armorial  motto:  "Crede  Gordon" — 
a  garish,  ostentatious  gewgaw  whose  every  fragile  line 
and  over-decoration  was  a  sneer.  It  had  been  brought 
him  in  a  satin  casket  by  the  hand  of  the  suave  Paolo, 
the  last  polished  sting  of  his  master,  the  Count  Guic- 
cioli.  He  would  bring  to  naught  that  gilded  mockery 
of  hatred  that  scoffed  at  his  purpose!  A  few  more 
hours  and  preparations  would  be  completed  for  the  at- 
tack on  Lepanto.  To  storm  that  stronghold,  rout  the 
Turkish  forces,  sound  this  one  clear  bugle-call  that 
would  ring  on  far  frontiers — and  so,  the  fall  of  the  cur- 
tain. 

At  length  he  sat  down  at  the  table  and  in  the  candle- 
light began  to  write.  What  he  wrote  in  that  hour  has 
been  preserved  among  the  few  records  George  Gordon 
left  behind  him  at  Missolonghi. 

"My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  done; 
The  worm,  the  canker  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone! 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  Jealous  care. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share. 
I  wear  the  chain. 

Yet  see — the  sword,  the  flag,  the  field! 

Glory  and  Greece  around  me  see! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 
Was  not  more  free. 


426  THE    CASTAWAY 

Awake!   (not  Greece — she  is  awake!) 

Awake  my  spirit!    Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake. 
And  then  strike  home! 

Up  to  the  battle!     There  is  found 

A  soldier's  grave — for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around  and  choose  thy  ground. 
And  take  thy  rest!" 

The  pen  fell  from  his  fingers.  A  sudden  icy  breath 
seemed  to  congeal  from  the  air.  He  rose — ^tried  to  walk, 
but  felt  his  limbs  failing  him.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
a  bright  spot  on  the  wall,  fighting  desperately  against 
the  appalling  faintness  that  was  enshrouding  him.  It 
gyrated  and  swam  before  his  vision — a  burnished  hel- 
met. Should  the  battle  after  all  evade  him?  Was  it 
denied  him  even  to  fall  upon  the  field  ?  A  roaring  rose 
in  his  ears. 

He  steadied  himself  against  the  table  and  shut  his 
teeth.  The  quiver  of  convulsion  was  upon  him  again — 
and  the  movement  against  Lepanto  began  to-morrow! 
It  must  not  come — not  yet,  not  yet!  The  very  life  of 
the  cause  was  wound  in  his.    He  would  not  yield! 

The  shepherd-dog  had  risen  whining  from  the 
hearth;  Gordon  felt  the  rough  tongue  licking  his  hand 
— ^felt  but  could  not  see.  He  staggered  toward  the 
couch.  Darkness  had  engulfed  him,  a  black  giddiness 
from  whose  depths  he  heard  faintly  a  frantic  barking 
and  hurried  footsteps  on  the  stair. 


CHAPTEK  LXII 

GOEDON  GOES  UPON  A  PILGRIMAGE 

Easter  afternoon  and  all  Missolonghi  was  on  the 
streets.  But  there  were  no  festivities,  no  firing  of  guns 
nor  decorations.  A  pall  had  settled  on  the  town,  a  pall 
reflected  in  a  sky  dun-colored  and  brooding  storm. 

To-day  had  been  fixed  upon  for  the  march  against 
Lepanto,  but  now  war  was  forgotten.  The  wheels  of 
movement  had  stopped  like  those  of  some  huge  machine 
whose  spring  of  action  has  lost  its  function.  Silent 
soldiers  patrolled  the  empty  bazaar  and  the  deserted 
docks.  The  crowds  that  thronged  the  pavements — Su- 
liotes,  their  wild  faces  softened  by  grief  unconcealed, 
gloomy  ofiicers  of  infantry  and  artillery,  weeping 
women,  and  grave  priests  of  the  Greek  church — con- 
versed in  low  tones.  Even  the  arrival  of  a  new  vessel 
in  the  harbor  had  gone  unnoticed.  Observation  cen- 
tered on  the  stone  building  fronting  the  shallows,  from 
whose  guarded  precincts  from  time  to  time  an  aide  is- 
sued with  news  which  spread  speedily  through  the  de- 
sponding populace — ^the  military  headquarters  where 
the  foreign  arcJiistrategos  lay  sick  unto  death. 

Through  the  crowds,  from  the  wharf,  three  figures 
passed  in  haste.  One  was  a  gigantic  Venetian  servant, 
staggering  beneath  the  burden  of  an  iron-bound  chest. 

(427) 


428  THE    CASTAWAY 

Small  wonder  its  weight  taxed  even  his  herculean 
strength,  for  besides  bills  of  exchange  for  the  sum  nine 
times  over,  it  contained  ten  thousand  pounds  in  English 
sovereigns.  His  huge  form  made  a  way  for  the  two 
who  followed  him:  a  venerable  Armenian  friar,  bare- 
headed and  sandalled,  and  a  woman  heavily  veiled, 
whose  every  nerve  was  strung  with  voiceless  suffering. 

Mercifully  a  portion  of  the  truth  had  come  to  Teresa 
at  Zante,  and  in  the  few  intervening  hours,  an  eternity 
of  suspense,  she  had  gained  an  unnatural  self-control. 
Up  to  the  last  moment  of  possibility  she  had  fought  the 
dread  sense  of  the  inevitable  that  was  risiug  to  shut  out 
her  whole  horizon  of  future;  but  before  the  ominous 
hush  of  the  multitudes,  hope  had  died  within  her.  She 
seemed  to  hear  Mary  Shelley  crying  through  the  voice 
of  that  Pisan  storm :  ^^0, 1  am  afraid — afraid — afraid  !*^ 

Yet,  even  in  her  despair,  as  she  threaded  the  press 
with  the  friar,  she  felt  an  anguished  pride  and  thank- 
fulness. The  man  on  whose  life  these  awe-struck  thou- 
sands trembled — ^the  all  that  he  had  been  to  her !  And 
she  had  not  come  too  late. 

In  the  cheerless  stone  room,  Mavrocordato,  Pietro 
Gamba  and  the  men  of  medicine  watched  beside  the 
couch  on  which  Gordon  lay.  After  a  long  period  of  un- 
consciousness he  had  opened  his  eyes. 

A  moment  he  looked  about  the  familiar  apartment, 
slowly  realizing.  He  saw  the  tears  on  Gamba's  cheeks, 
the  grave  sorrow  that  moulded  the  prince's  face.  In 
that  moment  he  did  not  deceive  himself. 

His  look  drew  Mavrocordato — a.  look  in  which  ww  a 
question,  but  no  fear. 


THE   CASTAWAY  400 

The  other  bent  over  him.  "An  hour,  they  think/' 
he  said  gently. 

Gordon  closed  his  eyes.  Such  a  narrow  span  between 
this  life  and  the  unbridged  gulf,  between  the  old  ques- 
tioning and  the  great  solution.  An  hour,  and  he  should 
test  the  worth  of  Dallas'  creed,  should  know  if  the 
friar  of  San  Lazzarro  had  been  right.  An  hour,  and 
life  would  be  behind  him,  with  its  errors  ended,  its 
longings  quenched. 

Its  largest  endeavor  had  been  defeated :  that  was  the 
closest  sting.  In  his  weakness  all  else  sank  away  beside 
the  thought  that  he  had  tried — and  failed.  Even  the 
one  blow  he  might  not  strike.  The  nation  was  in  straits, 
the  loan  delayed,  the  campaign  unopened.  He  caught 
the  murmurs  of  the  crowds  in  the  courtyard.  His  lips 
framed  words :  "My  poor  Greece !  Who  shall  lead  you 
now?'' 

Yet  he  had  done  his  best,  given  his  all,  even  his  love. 
She,  Teresa,  would  know  and  hold  his  effort  dear  be- 
cause she  loved  him.  But  there  was  another  woman — ■ 
in  England — who  had  hated  and  despised  him.  He  had 
piled  upon  her  the  mountain  of  his  curse,  and  that 
curse  had  been  forgiveness.  Must  her  memory  of  him 
be  always  bitterness  ?  In  the  fraying  fringe  of  life  past 
resentments  were  worn  pitifully  small.  Should  he  go 
without  one  tenderer  word  to  Annabel  ? 

He  tried  to  lift  himself.    "Fletcher !"  he  said  aloud. 

The  old  valet,  shaken  with  emotion,  came  forward  as 
the  others  turned  away. 

'Tjisten,  Fletcher.     You  will  go  back  to  England. 
Go  to  my  wife—you  will  see  Ada—tell  my  sistei 
Bay—'* 


430  THE   CASTAWAY 

His  voice  had  become  indistinct  and  the  phrases  ran 
together.  Only  fragmentary  words  could  be  distin- 
guished: "Ada''— "my  child"— "my  sister"— "Hob- 
house.'*  His  speech  flashed  into  coherence  at  last  as  he 
ended :    "Now  I  have  told  you  all." 

"My  dear  lord/'  sobbed  the  valet,  "I  have  not  under- 
stood a  word !" 

Pitiful  distress  overspread  Gordon's  features.  "Not 
understood?"  he  said  with  an  effort.  "Then  it  is  too 
late !"  He  sank  back.  Fletcher,  blind  with  grief,  left 
the  room. 

A  subdued  commotion  rose  unwontedly  beneath  the 
windows.  Mavrocordato  spoke  hurriedly  to  an  orderly 
who  had  just  come  to  the  door.  *^Have  they  not  been 
told?"  he  whispered.    "What  is  the  matter?" 

Through  the  closing  darkness,  Gordon's  ear  caught 
a  part  of  the  low  reply,  ^^hat  did  he  say  ?"  he  asked. 

Mavrocordato  approached  the  couch.  "Some  one  has 
come  in  a  vessel  bringing  a  vast  fortune  for  Greece." 

The  dimming  eyes  flared  up  with  joyful  exultation. 
The  cause  was  not  lost  then.  The  armament  could  go 
on — ^the  fleet  be  strengthened,  the  forces  held  together, 
till  the  loan  came — ^till  another  might  take  his  place. 

A  sound  of  footsteps  fell  on  the  stair — ^there  was  a 
soft  knock.  The  orderly's  voice  demanded  the  pass- 
word. 

If  there  was  reply,  none  of  the  watchers  heard  it. 
Gordon  had  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow,  his  head  turned 
with  a  sudden,  strange  expectancy.  "The  password?" 
he  said  distinctly, — ^"it  is  hereP  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  heart. 


THE   CASTAWAY  431 

A  sobbing  cry  answered,  and  a  woman  crossed  swiftly 
to  the  conch  and  knelt  beside  it. 

A  great  light  came  to  Gordon's  countenance.  "Te- 
resa V'  he  gasped.    "Teresa — ^my  love  V' 

The  effort  had  brought  exhaustion.  He  sank  back, 
feeling  his  head  pillowed  upon  her  breast.  He  smiled 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

A  friar  had  followed  her  into  the  room.  Mavrocor- 
dato  beckoned  the  wondering  surgeons  to  the  door. 
They  passed  out,  and  young  Gamba,  after  one  glance  at 
his  sister,  followed.  The  friar  drew  near  the  couch, 
crucifix  in  hand,  his  lips  moving  silently.  The  door 
closed. 

After  the  one  cry  which  had  voiced  that  beloved 
name,  Teresa  had  made  no  sound.  She  cradled  Gor- 
don's head  in  her  arms,  watching  his  face  with  a  fear- 
ful tenderness.  From  the  court  came  the  hushed  hum 
of  many  people,  from  the  stair  low  murmur  of  voices; 
behind  her  she  heard  Padre  Somalian's  breathed 
prayer.  Her  heart  was  bleeding  with  a  bitter  pain. 
Now  and  again  she  touched  the  damp  brow,  like  blue- 
veined  marble,  and  warmed  the  cold  hands  between  her 
own  as  she  had  done  in  that  direful  ride  when  her  arms 
had  held  that  body,  bleeding  from  a  kriss. 

The  day  was  declining  and  the  air  filled  with  shad- 
ows. The  storm  that  had  hung  in  the  sky  had  begun  to 
mutter  in  rolling  far-off  thunder,  and  the  sun,  near  to 
setting,  made  a  lurid  flame  at  the  horizon-bars.  Gordon 
stirred  and  muttered,  and  at  length  opened  his  eyes 
upon  the  red  glare.  He  heard  the  echoes  of  the  clouds, 
like  distant  artillery. 

With  the  energy  of  delirium  he  sat  up.    He  began  to 


4S3  THE    CASTAWAY 

talk  wildly,  in  a  singular  jumble  of  languages:  "For- 
ward! Forward!  Courage — strike  for  Greece!  It  is 
yictory  V 

The  hallucination  of  weakness  had  given  him  his  su- 
preme desire.    He  was  leading  the  assault  on  Lepanto. 

"My  son," — ^the  friar's  voice  spoke — "there  are  other 
victories  than  of  war.  There  is  that  of  the  agony  and 
the  cross." 

The  words  seemed  to  strike  through  the  delirium  of 
the  fevered  fantasies  and  calm  them.  The  dying  man's 
eyes  fastened  on  the  speaker  with  a  vague  inquiry. 
There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  while  outside  the 
chamber  a  grizzled  servant  knelt  by  a  group  of  ofiScers, 
his  seamed  face  wet  with  tears,  and  from  the  courtyard 
rose  the  plaintive  howl  of  a  dog. 

Through  the  deepening  abyss  of  Gordon's  senses  the 
crumbling  memory  was  groping  for  an  old  recollection 
that  stirred  at  the  question.  Out  of  the  maze  grew  sen- 
tences which  a  voice  like  that  had  once  said:  "Every 
man  bears  a  cross  of  despair  to  his  Calvary.  He  who 
bore  the  heaviest  saw  beyond.    What  did  He  say  ? — " 

The  failing  brain  struggled  to  recall.  What  did  He 
say  ?  He  saw  dimly  the  emblem  which  the  friar's  hand 
held — an  emblem  that  had  hung  always  somewhere, 
somewhere  in  a  fading  Paradise  of  his.  It  expanded,  a 
sad  dark  Calvary  against  olive  foliage  gray  as  the  ashes 
of  the  Gethsemane  agony — the  picture  of  the  eternal 
suffering  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

"Not— my  will,  but— Thine !" 

The  words  fell  faintly  from  the  wan  lips,  scarce  a 
murmur  in  the  stirless  room.  Gordon's  form,  in  Te- 
resa's clasp,  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  chill.     She  did 


THE    CASTAWAY  453 

not  see  the  illumination  that  transformed  the  friar's 
face,  nor  hear  the  door  open  to  her  hrother  and  Mavro- 
cordato.  She  was  deaf  to  all  save  the  moan  of  her 
stricken  love,  blind  to  all  save  that  face  that  was  slip- 
ping from  life  and  her. 

Gordon's  hand  fumbled  in  his  breast,  and  drew  some- 
thing forth  that  fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers  on  to  the 
bed — a  curling  lock  of  baby's  hair  and  a  worn  frag- 
ment of  paper  on  which  was  a  written  prayer.  She  un- 
derstood, and,  lifting  them,  laid  them  against  his  lips. 

His  eyes  smiled  once  into  hers  and  his  face  turned 
wholly  to  her,  against  her  breast. 

"Now,"  he  whispered,  "I  shall  go — ^to  sleep." 

A  piteous  cry  burst  from  Teresa's  heart  as  the  friar 
leaned  forward.  But  there  was  no  answer.  George 
Gordon's  eternal  pilgrimage  had  begun. 


CHAPTER  LXin 


THE    GREAT   SILEXCE 


Blaquiere  stood  beside  Teresa  in  the  windowed  cham* 
ber  which  had  been  set  apart  for  her,  overlooking  the 
courtyard. 

All  in  that  Grecian  port  knew  of  her  love  and  the  pur- 
pose that  had  upheld  her  in  her  journey.  To  the  forlorn 
town  her  wordless  grief  seemed  a  tender  intimate  token 
of  a  loss  still  but  half  comprehended.  It  had  surrounded 
her  with  an  unvarying  thoughtfulness  that  had  fallen 
gently  across  her  anguish.  She  had  listened  to  the  muf- 
fled rumble  of  cannon  that  the  wind  brought  across  the 


434  THE   CASTAWAY 

marshes  from  the  stronghold  of  Patras,  where  the  Turks 
rejoiced.  She  had  seen  the  palled  bier,  in  the  midst  of 
Gordon's  own  brigade,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  the  offi- 
cers of  his  corps  to  the  Greek  church,  to  lie  in  state  be- 
side the  remains  of  Botzaris — ^had  seen  it  borne  back  to 
its  place  amid  the  wild  mourning  of  half -civilized  tribes- 
men and  the  sorrow  of  an  army. 

The  man  she  had  loved  had  carried  into  the  Great  Si- 
lence a  people's  worship  and  a  nation's  tears.  Now  as 
she  looked  out  across  the  massed  troops  with  arms  at 
rest — across  the  crowded  docks  and  rippling  shallows  to 
the  sea^  where  two  ships  rode  the  swells  side  by  side,  she 
hugged  this  thought  closer  and  closer  to  her  heart.  One 
of  these  vessels  had  borne  her  hither  and  was  to  take 
her  back  to  Italy.  The  other,  a  ship-of-the-line,  had 
brought  the  man  who  stood  beside  her,  with  the  first  in- 
stallment of  the  English  loan.  It  was  to  bear  to  an  Eng- 
lish sepulture  the  body  of  the  exile  to  whom  his  country 
had  denied  a  living  home.  Both  vessels  were  to  weigh 
with  the  evening  tide. 

Blaquiere,  looking  at  the  white  face  that  gazed  sea- 
ward, remembered  another  day  when  he  had  heard  her 
singing  to  her  harp  from  a  dusky  garden.  He  knew  that 
her  song  would  never  again  fall  with  such  a  cadence. 

At  length  he  spoke,  looking  down  on  the  soldiery  and 
the  people  that  waited  the  passing  to  the  water-side  of 
the  last  cortege. 

^^I  wonder  if  he  sees — if  he  knows,  as  I  know,  Con- 
tessa,  what  the  part  he  acted  here  shall  have  done  for 
Greece  ?  In  his  death  faction  has  died,  and  the  enmities 
of  its  chiefs  will  be  buried  with  him  forever !" 


THE  CASTAWAY  435 

Her  eyes  turned  to  the  sky,  reddening  now  to  sun- 
set.   "I  think  he  knows/^  she  answered  softly. 

Padre  Somalian's  voice  behind  them  intervened :  '^e 
must  go  aboard  presently,  my  daughter." 

She  turned,  and  as  the  friar  came  and  stood  looking 
down  beside  Blaquiere,  passed  out  and  crossed  the  hall 
to  the  room  wherein  lay  her  dead. 

She  approached  the  bier — a  rude  chest  of  wood 
upon  rough  trestles,  a  black  mantle  serving  for  pall. 
At  its  head,  laid  on  the  folds  of  a  Greek  flag,  were  a 
sword  and  a  simple  wreath  of  laurel.  A  dull  roar  shook 
the  air  outside — ^the  minute-gun  from  the  grand  bat- 
tery, firing  a  last  salute — and  a  beam  of  fading  sun- 
light glanced  through  the  window  and  turned  to  a  fiery 
globe  a  glittering  helmet  on  the  wall. 

Gently,  as  though  a  sleeping  child  lay  beneath  it,  she 
withdrew  the  pall  and  white  shroud  from  the  stainless 
face.  She  looked  at  it  with  an  infinite  yearning,  while 
outside  the  minute-gun  boomed  and  the  great  bell  of  the 
Greek  church  tolled  slowly.  Blaquiere's  words  were  in 
her  mind. 

*^Do  you  know,  my  darling  ?''  she  whispered.  'T)o 
you  know  that  Greece  lives  because  my  heart  is  dead  V 

She  took  from  her  bosom  the  curl  of  flaxen  hair  and 
the  fragment  of  paper  that  had  fallen  from  his  chilling 
fingers  and  put  them  in  his  breast.  Then  stooping,  she 
touched  in  one  last  kiss  the  unanswering  marble  of  his 
lips. 

At  the  threshold  she  looked  back.  The  golden  glimmer 
from  the  helmet  fell  across  the  face  beneath  it  with  an 
unearthly  radiance.  A  touch  of  woman's  pride  came 
to  her — ^the  pride  that  sits  upon  a  broken  heart. 

"How  beautiful  he  was!"  she  said  in  a  low  roice* 
''Oh,  God  I  How  beautiful  he  was!'' 


CHAPTER  LXIV 

*^0F  HIM  WHOM  SHE  DENIED  A  HOME^  THE  GRAVE" 

Greece  was  nevermore  a  vassal  of  the  Turk.  In  the 
death  of  the  archistrategos  who  had  so  loved  her  cause, 
the  chieftains  put  aside  quarrels  and  buried  private  am- 
bitions— all  save  one.  In  the  stone  chamber  at  Misso- 
longhi  wherein  that  shrouded  form  had  lain,  the  Suliote 
chiefs  swore  fealty  to  Mavrocordato  and  the  constitu- 
tional government  as  they  had  done  to  George  Gordon. 

Another  had  visited  that  chamber  before  them.  This 
was  a  dark-bearded  man  in  Suliote  dress,  who  entered  it 
unobserved  while  the  body  of  the  man  he  had  so  hated 
lay  in  state  in  the  Greek  church.  Trevanion  forced  the 
sealed  door  of  the  closet  and  examined  the  papers  it  con- 
tained. When  he  took  horse  for  Athens,  he  bore  with 
him  whatever  of  correspondence  and  memoranda  might 
be  fuel  for  the  conspiracy  of  Ulysses — and  a  roll  of 
manuscript,  the  completion  of  "Don  Juan,''  which  he 
tore  to  shreds  and  scattered  to  the  four  winds  on  a  flat 
rock  above  a  deep  pool  a  mile  from  the  town.  He  found 
Ulysses  a  fugitive,  deserted  by  his  faction,  and  followed 
him  to  his  last  stronghold,  a  cavern  in  Mount  Parnas- 
sus. 

But  fast  as  Trevanion  went,  one  went  as  fast.  This 
(436) 


THE   CASTAWAY  437 

was  a  young  Greek  who  had  ridden  from  Salona  to  Mis- 
solonghi  with  one  Lambro,  primate  of  Argos.  Beneath 
the  beard  and  Suliote  attire  he  recognized  Trevanion, 
and  his  brain  leaped  to  fire  with  the  memory  of  a  twin 
sister  and  the  fearful  fate  of  the  sack  to  which  she  had 
once  been  abandoned.  From  an  ambush  below  the  en- 
trance of  Ulysses'  cave,  he  shot  his  enemy  through  the 
heart. 

On  the  day  Trevanion's  sullen  career  was  ended,  along 
the  same  highway  which  Gordon  had  traversed  when  he 
rode  to  Newstead  on  that  first  black  home-coming,  a 
single  carriage  followed  a  leaden  casket  from  London  to 
Nottinghamshire. 

In  its  course  it  passed  a  noble  country-seat,  the  her- 
mitage of  a  woman  who  had  once  burned  an  efiigy  be- 
fore a  gay  crowd  in  Almack's  Assembly  Kooms.  Lady 
Caroline  Lamb,  diseased  in  mind  as  in  body,  discerned 
the  procession  from  the  terrace.  As  the  hearse  came  op- 
posite she  saw  the  crest  upon  the  pall.  She  fainted  and 
never  again  left  her  bed. 

The  cortege  halted  at  Hucknall  church,  near  New- 
stead  Abbey,  and  there  the  earthly  part  of  George  Gor- 
don was  laid,  just  a  year  from  the  hour  he  had  bidden 
farewell  to  Teresa  in  the  Pisan  garden,  where  now  a 
lonely  woman  garnered  her  deathless  memories. 

At  the  close  of  the  service  the  two  friends  who  had 
shared  that  last  journey — ^Dallas,  now  grown  feeble,  and 
Hobhouse,  recently  knighted  and  risen  to  political 
prominence — stood  together  in  the  lantern-lighted 
porch. 

*'What  of  the  Westminster  chapter  ?''  asked  Dallas. 
''Will  they  grant  the  permission  ?" 


438  THE   CASTAWAY 

A  shadow  crossed  the  other's  countenance.  Popular 
feeling  had  undergone  a  great  revulsion,  but  clerical 
enmity  was  outspoken  and  undying.  He  thought  of  a 
bitter  philippic  he  had  heard  in  the  House  of  Lords 
from  the  Bishop  of  London.  His  voice  was  resentful  a« 
he  answered: 

'^he  dean  has  refused.  The  greatest  poet  of  his  age 
and  country  is  denied  even  a  tablet  on  the  wall  of  West- 
minster Abbey  !*' 

The  kindly  eyes  under  their  white  brows  saddened. 
Dallas  looked  out  through  the  darkness  where  gloomed 
the  old  Gothic  towers  of  Newstead,  tenantless,  save  for 
their  raucous  colonies  of  rooks. 

'^he  greatest  poet  of  his  age  and  country!"  he  re- 
peated slowly.  "After  all,  we  can  be  satisfied  with  that." 


AFTERMATH 

Springs  quickened,  summers  sped  their  hurrying 
blooms,  autumns  hung  scarlet  flags  in  the  coppice,  win- 
ters fell  and  mantled  glebe  and  moor.  Yet  the  world 
did  not  forget. 

There  came  an  April  day  when  the  circumstance  of  a 
sudden  shower  set  down  from  an  open  carriage  at  the 
porch  of  Newstead  Abbey  a  slender  girl  of  seventeen, 
who  had  been  visiting  at  near-by  Annesley. 

Waiting,  in  the  library,  the  passing  of  the  rain,  the 
visitor  picked  up  a  book  from  the  table.  It  was  "Childe 
Harold's  Pilgrimage." 


THE    CASTAWAY  439 

For  a  time  she  read  with  tranquil  interest — ^then  sud- 
denly startled : 

"Is  thy  face  like  thy  mother's,  my  fair  child! 

Ada!  sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart? 
When  last  I  saw  thy  young  blue  eyes  they  smiled, 
And  then  we  parted, — ^not  as  now  we  part, 
But  with  a  hope. — ** 

She  looked  for  the  name  of  its  author  and  paled. 
Thereafter  she  sat  with  parted  lips  and  tremulous,  long 
breathing.  The  master  of  the  house  entered  to  find  an 
unknown  guest  reading  in  a  singular  rapt  absorption. 

Her  youth  and  interest  beckoned  his  favorite  topic. 
He  had  been  one  of  the  strangers  who,  year  by  year  in 
increasing  numbers,  visited  the  little  town  of  Hucknall 
— ^travelers  who,  speaking  the  tongue  in  which  George 
Gordon  had  written,  trod  the  pave  of  the  quiet  church 
with  veneration.  He  had  purchased  Newstead  and  had 
taken  delight  in  gathering  about  him  in  those  halls 
mementoes  of  the  man  whose  youth  had  been  spent 
within  them. 

While  the  girl  listened  with  wide  eyes  on  his  face,  he 
told  her  of  the  life  and  death  of  the  man  who  had  writ- 
ten the  book.  He  marvelled  while  he  talked,  for  it  ap- 
peared that  she  had  been  reared  in  utter  ignorance  of 
his  writings,  did  not  know  that  he  had  lived  beneath 
that  very  roof,  nor  that  he  lay  buried  in  the  church 
whose  spire  could  be  seen  from  the  mole.  He  waxed  elo- 
quent as  he  told  her  how  the  gilded  rank  and  fashion  of 
London  had  found  comfort  in  silence — ^how  Tom  Moore, 
long  since  become  one  of  its  complacent  satellites,  had 
read  its  wishes  well:  how  he  had  stood  in  a  locked  room 


440  THE    CASTAWAY 

and  given  the  smug  seal  of  his  approbation  while  secret 
flame  destroyed  the  self-justification  of  a  dead  man's 
name,  the  Memoirs  which  had  been  a  last  bequest  to  a 
living  daughter. 

The  shower  passed,  the  sun  came  out  rejoicing — still 
the  master  of  the  Abbey  talked.  When  he  had  finished 
he  showed  his  listener  a  portrait,  painted  by  the  Amer- 
ican, Benjamin  West.  When  she  turned  from  this,  her 
face  was  oddly  white;  she  was  thinking  of  another  por- 
trait hidden  by  a  curtain,  which  had  been  one  of  the  un- 
solved mysteries  of  her  childhood. 

On  her  departure  her  host  drove  with  her  to  Huck- 
nall  church,  and  standing  in  the  empty  chancel  she  read 
the  marble  tablet  set  into  the  wall : 

IN  THE  VAULT  BENEATH 
LIE  THE  REMAINS  OP 

GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  "CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE". 

HE  WAS  BORN  IN  LONDON  ON  THE  22nd  OF 

JANUARY,  1788. 

HE  DIED  AT  MISSOLONGHI   IN  WESTERN  GREECE, 

ON  THE  19th  OF  APRIL,  1824, 

ENGAGED  IN  THE  GLORIOUS  ATTEMPT  TO 

RESTORE  THAT 

COUNTRY  TO  HER  ANCIENT  FREEDOM  AND 

RENOWN. 


HIS  SISTER  PLACED  THIS  TABLET  TO  HIS 
MEMORY. 

A  long  time  the  girl  stood  silent,  her  features  quiver- 
ing with  some  strange  emotion  of  reproach  and  pain. 
Behind  her  she  heard  her  escort's  voice.  He  was  repeat- 


THE    CASTAWAY  441 

tag  lines  from  the  book  she  had  been  reading  an  hour 
before : 

**My  hopes  of  being  remembered  are  entwined 
With  my  land's  language:  If  too  fond  and  far 

These  aspirations  in  their  scope  inclined — 
If  my  fame  should  be,  as  my  fortunes  are. 
Of  hasty  blight,  and  dull  Oblivion  bar 

My  name  from  out  tLj  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honored  by  the  nations — ^let  it  be — 

And  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head! 

Meantime,  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reaped  are  of  the  tree 

I  planted.  They  have  torn  me — ^and  I  bleed. 

My  task  is  done — ^my  song  hath  ceased — ^my  theme 

Has  died  into  an  echo;  it  is  fit 
The  spell  should  break  of  this  protracted  dream. 

The  torch  shall  be  extinguished  which  hath  lit 

My  midnight  lamp — and  what  is  writ,  is  writ 
Farewell!  a  word  that  must  be,  and  hath  been — 

A  sound  which  makes  us  linger; — yet — farewell' 
Ye!  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 

Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 

A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 

He  wore  his  sandal-shoon,  and  scallop-shell!" 

Could  he  whose  ashes  lay  beneath  that  recording 
stone  have  seen  the  look  on  the  girl's  face  as  she  listened 
— could  he  have  seen  her  shrink  that  night  from  a  wom- 
an's contained  kiss — ^he  would  have  known  that  his  lips 
had  been  touched  with  prophecy  when  he  said : 

"The  smiles  of  her  youth  have  been  her  mother's,  but 
the  tears  of  her  maturity  shall  be  mine !" 


A  SXETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

Hallie  Erminie  Rives  is,  by  blood,  a  Virginian  of 
Virginians.  The  Rives  family  is  descended  from  the 
Ryves  of  Damory  Court,  Dorcetshire,  England;  its 
progenitors  came  to  the  Old  Dominion  with  the 
Cavalier  wave  in  1645.  This  family  has  furnished 
the  country  with  soldiers,  writers  and  diplomats.  The 
United  States^  brilliant  ambassador  to  France,  now 
Princess  Troubetskoi,  are  among  its  descendents. 

On  her  mother's  side,  Hallie  Erminie  Rives  has 
even  bluer  descent.  John  Tillotson,  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, was  her  great-great-great-great-grandfather. 
Her  mother  in  ante-bellum  days  was  known  as  "the 
beautiful  Mary  Ragsdale,''  the  belle  of  a  group  of 
plantation  counties  and  a  daring  horsewoman.  From 
her,  doubtless.  Miss  Rives  inherits  her  love  of  horse- 
flesh, which  shows  so  clearly  in  "Hearts  Courageous.'' 

Hallie  Erminie  Rives  is  an  only  child,  brought  up 
(her  mother  was  an  invalid  for  years  before  her 
death)  in  the  out-of-doors.  Her  father,  an  officer  of 
the  Confederacy,  who  has  never  set  foot  north  of 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  since  he  lay  for  two  years 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

in  a  Northern  army  prison,  made  her  his  comrade. 
Known  to  neighbors  as  "the  Eives*  little  wildcat/'  she 
grew  up  a  dead  rifle-shot,  a  daring  bareback  rider 
and  a  nature-lover. 

She  wrote  her  first  novel  at  the  age  of  eight — ^be- 
fore she  had  ever  read  one.  Her  itch  for  scribble- 
ment  was  not  encouraged,  but  she  persevered.  At 
eighteen  she  published  "Smoking  Flax,"  the  first  of 
the  race-problem  novels  dealing  with  the  South.  It 
was,  in  a  sense,  a  fictional  justification  of  Judge 
Lynch,  and  precipitated  a  year-long  battle  between 
Northern  and  Southern  critics.  Two  years  later 
came  "A  Furnace  of  Earth,''  published  simultane- 
ously in  America  and  England.  This  was  an  in- 
tensely vivid  sex-novel  which  received  immense  dis- 
cussion. Her  third  novel,  the  brilliant  "Hearts 
Courageous"  was  hailed  at  once  as  the  best  of  all  the 
colonial  novels.  Some  critics  call  it  the  best  novel 
yet  written  by  an  American  woman.  Its  character- 
ization of  Patrick  Henry  and  its  dramatic  treatment 
of  the  scenes  incident  to  the  signing  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence  in  Philadelphia  in  1776,  have 
carried  Miss  Eives'  name  into  the  very  first  rank  of 
American  writers. 

Her  last  novel,  "The  Castaway,"  is  a  complete  d«- 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  AUTHOI^ 

parture.  The  Castaway,  crowned  with  genius^ 
smutched  with  slander,  illumined  by  fame,  is  Lord 
Byron,  and  the  story  is  the  most  profoundly  sym- 
pathetic portrait  of  the  poet  ever  drawn.  Possessing 
all  the  vivid  coloring  and  fire  of  her  earlier  novels, 
this  book  shows  a  greater  power  of  dramatic  situa- 
tion, a  maturer  grasp  of  plot,  and  a  finish  of  style 
which  should  definitely  establish  its  author's  place  in 
American  literature. 

Miss  Eives  has  recently  returned  from  England, 
where  she  finished  a  series  of  "Tales  From  Dickens," 
which  will  soon  be  published  to  delight  the  hearts  of 
younger  readers.  Each  of  these  Tales  is  a  complete 
novel  of  Charles  Dickens,  compressed  to  the  compass 
of  a  few  pages,  simply  told,  but  with  each  thread  of 
plot  drawn  clear  and  distinct,  so  that  the  youngest 
child  can  follow  its  course.  An  authority  on  Dickens, 
a  professor  of  English  in  a  great  Eastern  university, 
to  whom  these  Tales  were  submitted,  called  them 
^^masterpieces  in  sympathy  and  construction." 

While  in  England  the  King  commanded  Miss 
Hives*  presentation  at  court — an  honor  which  she  is 
the  first  American  authoress  to  receive. 


YB.69I93( 


